


Consequences

by The_Arkadian



Series: The Apostate Chronicles [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to Unschooled Hands. Hawke is mortally wounded in battle, and only Fenris can help Anders save his life. Anders is forced to see Fenris in a whole new light, and the apostate's life can never be the same again....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Absolutely not!”

Hawke barely flinched as the empty bottle smashed against the wall.

“If the abomination is going then I'm staying!”

“Fenris....”

“I said no, and that is my final word!” The elf glared at the warrior, his green eyes flashing with fury as he spat out his denial before turning upon his heel. “Get out,” he growled.

Hawke regarded the taut set of the elf's shoulders thoughtfully before stepping closer.

“It's slavers,” he said quietly, his breath ghosting over the delicately curving shell of the elf's ear. Fenris closed his eyes briefly, hands clenching into fists.

“Don't ask me to go with you whilst _he_ is by your side,” he said quietly.

Hawke sighed. “I thought – you and he – after what-”

“You thought wrong,” Fenris snapped as he strode away towards the empty, cold fireplace. Hawke sighed and ran a hand through his black hair, shaking his head. “He's our healer, Fenris; we need him. You know that.”

Fenris turned, resting a hand on the marble mantelpiece. “You would take him away from his clinic? From the people who need him?”

Hawke blinked, surprised, then frowned and waggled a finger at Fenris as he walked closer. “Don't you try that on me, elf!” he growled. Fenris merely smiled – a brief quirk of the lips, with no warmth to it.

“The mage or I, Hawke. You choose.”

“Maker's balls, Fenris!” Hawke swore. “You know I need a good sword I can trust!”

“You trust me? I'm flattered,” replied the elf coolly. “Leave your pet abomination at home and I'll come.”

“He's not a pet,” sighed Hawke, running a hand over his face.

“But you don't deny he is an abomination.”

Hawke fixed him with a steady stare. “Are you in or not?”

“Is he?”

Hawke through up his hands. “Right, fine, yes, I'll leave Anders behind,” he snapped. “Happy?”

Fenris smiled ferally. “When do we go?”

 

 

“You're leaving me behind?” asked Anders, a look of hurt bewilderment creeping across his face. “But – I thought -”

“You've been looking tired, love,” said Hawke gently, cupping the age's cheek with his palm. Anders reflexively leaned into the warm touch, though the soft brown eyes were still questioning. “It's just a quick and dirty job; I'm not anticipating much trouble. Why don't you take a day off from the clinic, stay at my place, get some real rest in a proper bed for once?”

Anders shook his head and stepped back, turning to the table behind him where he'd been in the middle of preparing potions. “No, I can't; too many people need me here.” His hands paused as he added, “I thought... _you_ needed me....”

Hawke stepped up close behind the slender man, slipping his hands easily around his waist as he gently kissed the nape of Anders' neck. “I _do_ need you, love, just... not on this trip.”

Anders let his hands fall limply to his sides and leaned back into Hawke, tilting his head back until it rested on Hawke's shoulder. Hawke gently kissed his cheek.

“Be careful,” murmured the apostate. “Don't take any foolish risks. Please?”

“I'll be fine, love,” replied Hawke. “I'll have Fenris to watch my back.”

Anders straightened up. “Oh, that makes it alright, doesn't it?” he snapped testily. “You'll have your pet elf along, so you don't need Anders, hey? After all, I can't rip men's hearts still beating out of their chests or decapitate half a dozen slavers with my massive penis-compensation greatsword – no, I'm just the weak, delicate flower mage who puts you all back together again when you get your fool selves-”

“You're not weak, love,” replied Hawke, pulling him close in a bear hug. Anders stiffened until Hawke reluctantly released him. “Anders-”

“Oh, for the love of Andraste's nipple-tassels, Hawke, just _go_ , will you?” Anders snapped. “I have work to do and you obviously don't want me along. I'll see you later – assuming you don't get yourself killed,” he added bitterly.

He listened to Hawke's footsteps as he left the room, standing still until he heard the clinic door close. Then he sank down into the wooden chair and lowered his head into his hands.

 

It was easy.

“Too easy, perhaps,” said Varric slowly as he retrieved crossbow bolts from the bodies. He held up one bolt, eyed his length then pulled a face and tossed it aside as unusable. “I don't like this, Hawke. Something don't quite smell right about this whole set-up.”

“The dwarf is right,” said Fenris, frowning down at the body of a slaver.

“A trap, you think?” remarked Isabela, raising one eyebrow.

“One not yet sprung, in any case,” replied Hawke. He kicked over the body closest to him and wrestled his throwing dagger out of the dead man's chest. He paused, thumbing a nick in the blade. “It doesn't take eight men to steal away one elf maid,” he continued. “What's so special about her?”

Fenris shrugged. “She looks no different than any other Dalish child in the alienage,” he remarked. “Doubtless Merrill will be able to tell us more about her-”

He broke off as Merrill gave a shriek then lifted her hand to her mouth as the girl ran away. “She bit me!” she exclaimed, tailing off into a string of what sounded like Dalish curses.

“Isabela, Varric, see to Merrill!” yelled Hawke, taking after the girl. “Fenris, with me!”

Fenris nodded and took off after the girl at a sprint, Hawke close on his heels.

“Why do they get all the fun?” pouted Isabela, nonetheless doing as she was told. Varric shrugged.

“Ours not to reason why, Rivaini,” he said placidly. “Let's take a look at that bite, Daisy,” he added, holding his hand out to Merrill. He frowned, staring at the strange puncture marks in the back of Merrill's hand. Gently he turned her hand over, staring at the wounds in her palm. “Did you ever see marks like that before?” he asked the pirate, who leaned over and shook her head slowly.

“No. N- oh. Wait. There was that one time....” She straightened up, tapping her chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. “Now, where was it? Damn, I know I've seen that before.”

“She was no Dalish child,” said Merrill, her voice shaky. “She was like nothing I've ever seen before. When she looked at me, it made my blood run cold.” She shivered.

“Anything?” asked Varric, reaching into his backpack for a healing kit and a small flask; Isabela shook her head. “I'm working on it,” she assured him. “I know I've seen bites like that before; I just don't remember where. Is that-”

“Dragon Piss,” replied Varric, opening the stopper.

“Eww!” exclaimed Merrill, shuddering. “Do you _drink_ that?”

“I try not to,” replied Varric.

“Maker's balls, I thought you had more taste than that!” Isabela muttered, her face pulling a mou of disgust.

“I do,” replied Varric. “This stuff is strictly medicinal.” He splashed a little over Merrill's bite wounds and she shrieked. “Sorry, Daisy,” the dwarf apologised gruffly. “We have no way of telling what kind of nasties were in that kid's mouth. Better to be safe than sorry.” He opened up the healing kit and started to lay out elfroot powder and bandages.

“I wish Anders were here,” the elf sniffed, looking miserable. “He may lecture me but he never poured Dragon Piss on me. Why does 'safe' always have to mean 'more painful' anyway?”

Varric began to dress her wounds whilst Isabela watched, frowning as she continued to rack her brains for where she had seen such bites before.

 

 

 

Though slightly faster than the human, Fenris' legs didn't have quite the reach of Hawke's, and within a few minutes the human had outpaced the elf. Ahead, the girl sprinted swiftly on, her bare feet sure on the bare rocks as she ran. Hawke, not quite so lithe and nimble, stumbled on loose stones, biting off an oath as his foot slipped before he threw himself onwards. Fenris shook his head to himself; something about this whole set-up felt very wrong.

He felt it first as a strange vibration that seemed to run through the lyrium in his brands; a sickening thrill of magic that ran through his bones and chilled his blood.

“Hawke, beware!” he yelled as the girl suddenly stopped and turned.

It wasn't a girl.

As Hawke skidded to a halt, it hissed at him, face elongating as the red eyes glowed and shifted, flowing over the surface of the skin as it grew mottled and darkened to a dark pulpy red. The creature reared up, its mouth opening then distending into a long snout-like maw lined with far too many glistening teeth as the bulk of its body heaved, shuddered then grew outwards like some obscene mound of flesh. The creature took a step forwards and bellowed, and Hawke recoiled.

“Venhedis!” Fenris swore, eyes widening. Every lyrium line upon his body flared into brilliant silvery light. “Abomination!”

“Oh shit,” Hawke breathed, swinging his sword up and barely parrying a swipe from the creature's claws as it lurched towards him. “But how??”

Fenris shook his head and dove in with his greatsword; fight first, question later. Hawke rolled out of the way as the monstrosity lashed out with its talons, its snapping jaws closing on thin air as it whipped its head around, the baleful red eyes tracking his movements. Fenris' blade clove the air and bit deeply into the flank of the creature which bellowed in pain then swung around suddenly; the elf leapt over the tail – _when did that thing spawn a tail??_ \- and swung his blade again.

Hawke was weaving his own dance in front of the beast as it ignored the elf, focusing its attentions instead upon the human. It lunged for him, ichor-dripping jaws snapping for his face as he reeled back, screwing up his face in disgust at the foul stench of the monster's breath. It swiped at him again, ignoring the sting of the elf's blade in its flank, intent only upon the human. Hawke dropped and rolled away from the claws only for the swipe from the creature's other paw to slam into his side. Hawke was sent flying by the blow and slammed hard into the trunk of a tree. He crumpled to the ground and lay still.

“Hawke!” exclaimed Fenris. “No!”

The creature screamed in triumph and advanced towards the fallen man even as Fenris leapt forward. Lyrium lines blazing, he phased his entire arm as he sprang up upon the monster's back and plunged it through the slick, purple-red flesh, seeking the heart.

“Die, damn you,” he hissed through gritted teeth as he clenched his fist around the vast-chambered organ, solidifying his hand as he tried to crush it. The monster reared back, roaring and whipping its head around, finally distracted at last as it took a step backwards. Phasing his hand again, Fenris jabbed his fingers inside one of the heart's ventricles then let his arm phase back in as he hooked his fingers into hot, throbbing flesh and ripped upwards and back.

He was dimly aware of other shouts and screams around him; several crossbow bolts thudded into the abomination's flank and neck as he tore his arm free, streaked with gore and gobbets of flesh. The stench of seared flesh filled the air as one of Merrill's spells found its mark, even as the creature staggered backwards.

“Jump, elf!” roared Varric. “It's dropping!”

“Andraste's tits!” screamed Isabela. “Get away from there, Fenris, it's going to-”

Fenris barely had time to scramble free of the falling abomination's corpse before it abruptly exploded.

 

 

 

Fenris pushed himself up off the floor. His ears were ringing and sounds seemed muted as he slowly started to wipe blood, gore, fragments of flesh and the Maker only knew what else from his arms and chest plate. He swiped ineffectually at the stinking mess spattered liberally over his pants and grimaced. He glanced around.

Isabela had pulled off her headscarf and was using it to wipe off her face; Varric was shaking his head as he prodded what was left of the abomination with his foot.

“Hunger abomination!” announced Isabela brightly. “That's what it reminded me of. A crewman we picked up just south of the Imperium border; the first warning we had that something was wrong was when the ship's cook turned up dead in the galley with the strangest teeth-marks in his throat. That one blew up when we killed it too. Though we didn't have a handy elf dealing out magical fisting death, more's the pity; bastard took down half the crew before we took it out. And damned near sunk the ship when it went off. Took two months to repair the damage it caused.”

“And you couldn't remember this sooner?” remarked Varric, raising an eyebrow.

Fenris glanced round; Merrill was crouched over Hawke's prone form. Fenris silently walked over and dropped into a crouch opposite her as Varric and Isabela brought up the rear.

“Oh hell,” muttered Isabela.

Fenris raised an inquiring eyebrow at Merrill as she glanced up. She shook her head sadly.

“It's not good,” she said softly, gently lifting the edge of Hawke's breastplate. The metal was buckled and twisted, the retaining straps snapped and broken. Fenris drew in his breath sharply as she set the breastplate aside, revealing the deep bloody claw wounds that had ripped open Hawke's side.

“Oh, Maker,” breathed Isabela. “Definitely not good.”

“Healing potions?” suggested Varric as he reached into his backpack. Merrill shook her head and held up an empty flask.

“I've already given him two,” she said. “They've made no difference. Something in the wounds is resisting healing. Maybe if Anders were here....” Her voice tailed off.

“Can you do nothing?” demanded Fenris roughly.

“I am sorry,” she replied in a small voice, looking crestfallen.

Fenris stared down at Hawke.

 

 

 

As the last patient for the day left, Anders gripped the edge of the examination table and let his head droop, exhausted. So many people, all needing his help, his skills, his potions – and his magic. It had started the moment Hawke had left, and the mage had had barely a chance to draw breath since. He put a hand to his face and sighed.

The clinic door banged open. Anders lifted his hand, palm outwards. “I'm sorry, no more for tonight,” he said wearily, lifting his head. “I ca....”

The words died in his throat as he raised his eyes and saw Fenris and Isabela carrying Hawke between them, Merrill and Varric bringing up the rear. A mixture of hope and dread was in every face as they stared at him, but he only had eyes for Hawke.

“Maker, no!” he breathed. He shoved himself away from the table and staggered to Hawke's side, staring down at him wide-eyed. “Hawke, no, not this, Maker please, no!”

“He lives, mage,” replied Fenris quietly. Anders' head jerked up and he blinked at the elf as if seeing him for the first time, then gestured to the table.

“There – put him there,” he said, following as they did as directed, shrugging out of his feathered jacket and rolling up the linen sleeves of his shirt. His voice took on a ringing tone of authority as he snapped himself into the role of healer once more. “Lyrium – the chest under my bed,” he ordered, gesturing at the curtain that hung over the door to the small room beyond. He stood by Hawke's side and carefully peeled back the tattered remains of Hawke's tunic as Merrill returned with the precious blue vial. She unstoppered it then thrust it into his waiting hand; without looking at her, he knocked it back in one.

“How long?” he asked, feeling the instant surge of power racing like quicksilver through his veins.

“Two, three hours?” guessed Varric, shrugging helplessly. “We came straight here.”

Anders swore quietly under his breath has he ran his hands lightly over Hawke's wounds, extending his magical senses and probing with his mind. “What the hell caused this?” he muttered, frowning. “There's magic here – foul and twisted... poison at work....”

“It was an abomination,” replied Fenris quietly.

Anders froze, then slowly raised his eyes to meet the elf's cool green gaze. They stared at each other for long heartbeats. There was something in Fenris' eyes that the apostate couldn't quite read. Concern, yes, fear perhaps, but also something... else.

Disquietened, Anders turned back to the task at hand. Reaching within himself, he called forth healing magics which pooled like cool liquid smoke in his palms; he directed it out and down into Hawke's body. Torn veins, ripped flesh, snapped tendons, crushed bones; he carefully drew them together, wove anew with magic. Driving out blood from the lungs, he drew poison out slowly, shaking the foul stuff from his fingers as he extracted it from Hawke's veins and tissues. The poison fought him, sinew and muscle resisting his touch as he strove to remake them, knit them together, make this broken body whole once more. Frowning, Anders reached deeper within himself, oblivious to everything except the task at hand. He dragged out every last ounce of power within him as the sweat rolled down his face, and yet he could feel Hawke's heart faltering.

“No, I will not lose you,” he breathed. “You don't die on me, Hawke, you hear me? Not here, not now, not like this!”

“Anders....”

The mage was oblivious to the lyrium-marked hand that laid upon his forearm as he bowed over the dying man, mind too intent on the battle he was losing. The torn flesh was mending itself but he could feel Hawke's heart slowing... stuttering... and then....

“ _No!_ ” screamed Anders. “Don't die! You _can't_ be dead! _Please!_ ” His head jerked up, eyes wild and desperate as he stared around at the others who stood in stunned silence around the table. His frantic gaze leapt from Varric, to Isabela, to Merrill, to Fenris.

Fenris.

Anders lunged for the startled elf and grasped him by the upper arms. “Fenris, help me. _Please._ I can't – I need you to- Oh Maker, _please!_ ”

The elf froze, his eyes widening in surprise. Something strange flickered in his gaze as his hands came up to grasp Anders' wrists, though he did not pull away.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, bewildered.

“His heart. I need you to restart it. To reach in and- t-to-”

“I understand,” Fenris nodded. Anders let him go, and Fenris placed his hand on the dead man's chest. He stared at Anders, then pushed his hand into Hawke's chest, questing fingers closing around the still organ. Anders placed his hands either side of his wrist, and at Anders' nod, Fenris gently pumped the heart as Anders threw every last drop of magic into Hawke's waiting body.

Fenris gasped as the magic sang through Hawke's body, setting the lyrium singing in his own flesh. It were as though his whole body were a bell of glass, and it was Anders' magic that had set him to ring. It rippled through his body and mind; a single pure note that his whole body answered as his body lit up with a brilliant fiery white glow.

And beneath Anders' hands, Hawke's chest stirred as he took a breath... then another... then another.

As the magic faded, Fenris drew his hand back and turned to stare at Anders. “We did it,” he said quietly.

Anders reeled, drained to the point of utter exhaustion. He stared hazily at the elf as he felt the room spinning around him. “We did? Oh... Maker....”

He felt himself falling... and then strong arms were holding him, lowering him gently to the floor, and he realised with dim surprise that they were glowing with lyrium. He looked up in confusion, and Fenris smiled gently down at him. “You did it, mage,” he said quietly.

As Anders fainted, his last thought was utter bewilderment. He could have sworn that was a note of affection in Fenris' voice....


	2. Chapter 2

The bed was soft.

He could tell by the feel and smell of the bed linen that he was in Hawke's mansion at the Amell estate. He had no idea how long he'd been out for; he assumed the others must have brought him here after he fainted. He was in no hurry to open his eyes; he'd been utterly exhausted, and was in no hurry to exert himself just yet. He wondered who'd undressed him; Isabela, he would guess. Merrill would be too shy, he didn't think Varric would have stripped him naked like this, and Fenris-

Fenris. He mused silently on the elf. Something odd there. In fact, there'd been something odd there since that last expedition they'd been on together. A lot of his memories during that time were still hazy – not surprising, considering the state he'd been in – but he was sure he hadn't imagined Fenris practically snarling at Hawke when the warrior had tried to – well, he supposed Hawke was going to try and shake some sense into him, though it had been hard to tell, what with the way he was scowling, and the elf holding him so tightly, which was also strange when you thought about it, given the elf's aversion to touch.

And then there was the teasing way Fenris reacted to the suggestion of holding hands. Anders stirred slightly, snuggling his cheek against the soft pillow as he mused, eyes still closed. Yes, when you think about it, Fenris had been somewhat more... cordial towards him on the way back to Kirkwall. Which made the elf's sudden reversion back to his usual mage-hating self all the more irritating. He had almost felt he could like the elf, and then suddenly it seemed the elf couldn't stand the sight of him and refused to have anything to do with him, to the point where Hawke had taken to leaving Anders behind if he needed the elf along.

And look where that got him this time! Damned near killed by an abomination – an abomination, by Andraste's flaming snatch! Damn it, and after he'd told Hawke to be careful -

A quiet indrawn breath alerted him to the presence of someone in the room with him, and his eyes flickered open to see Fenris sitting in a chair, watching him, with what could only be described as a lascivious look upon his face. He wasn't sure who was the more surprised.

 

 

Fenris sat back in the high-backed velvet chair and watched Anders sleeping.

Anders had been so deeply unconscious when they finally got him to Hawke's mansion that he hadn't stirred once the entire time. Fenris had stated he would watch over the unconscious mage; Isabela had offered to stay and help him “get the mage comfy” with a suggestive twitch of an eyebrow, but he had firmly pushed her out and suggested she look to Hawke instead.

He had undressed Anders gently, musing about the previous occasion he had undressed the man. At least this time he wasn't wounded, concussed and comatose, merely exhausted. He had loosened the blond hair from its customary tie then ran his slender fingers through the silky tresses. Human hair felt different to elf hair; it was a novelty to him.

He withdrew to the chair; his fingers itched to run his hands over the sleeping man's body, but instead he contented himself with playing the voyeur as Anders slept on, oblivious.

He'd dreamed about this so often, back in that lonely ruin of a mansion he called home these days, but it had never been quite like this; he'd always imagined it would perhaps be his bed the mage sprawled unconscious in, hair loose and tumbling like spilled gold over his faded pillows, his few decent blankets – perhaps the apostate's own soft grey blanket, the one with the griffon – pulled up just so; high enough to keep him warm yet still afford the elf a view of the pale torso dotted here and there with intriguing little scars, a light scattering of fine golden hairs. He imagined himself slowly licking and kissing his way up that soft skin, nipping lightly here and there, gently laving each scar with his tongue. He would ask Anders how he had acquired each one as he made his way so slowly up the apostate's body. He imagined Anders writhing deliciously beneath his ministrations, and he licked his lips, pink tongue darting out briefly between even white teeth.

He let his gaze trail up to Anders' throat, so inviting; silently he mused on how he would gently sink his teeth into that pale flesh whilst the mage moaned quietly, helplessly; he would nip and kiss his way slowly along that stubbled jaw, then swirl his tongue teasingly over those soft pink lips before raising his eyes to-

\- the amber brown eyes which were open and staring at him.

Fenris started.

“You look as though you're about to eat me alive,” remarked the mage. “I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.”

Fenris arched an eyebrow. “Which would you prefer?” he asked quietly.

Anders sat up, his face betraying the perplexion he was feeling. “Are you alright, Fenris?”

“Perfectly,” replied the elf, steepling his fingers together.

“You didn't perhaps hit your head whilst fighting that abomination?” Fenris shook his head. “Taken any tumbles onto your head? Drunk any strange potions you shouldn't? Any more strange blue bottles you found in that decrepit wine cellar of yours?” Anders persisted.

“No,” replied the elf. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I'm wondering why you're watching me while I sleep instead of doing your magical fisting thing to me. Not that I'm objecting, mind you,” he went on hastily. “I'm rather attached to my heart and much prefer it inside my rib cage where it's meant to be, thank you very much, if it's all the same to you.”

“Your heart is perfectly safe, mage,” replied the elf affably. “Physically, anyway.”

“You'll excuse me if I'm less than reassured, I'm sure,” Anders replied.

Fenris slowly stood up, and took a step towards the bed. Anders flinched back and clutched at the bedclothes, pulling them up a little.

“I will not hurt you, mage,” said the elf quietly as he sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Anders eyed him warily. “Who are you and what have you done with Fenris?” he demanded.

“Mage-”

Anders raised a hand, summoning a small glowing ball of magic which he tossed straight at the elf. It slammed into him painfully, though without damage; every lyrium line on his body flared into life at the shock of the magic rang through his body. Fenris growled in anger and lunged for the mage, shoving him back against the pillows with one hand around the vulnerable man's throat with the other hand balled into a fist and poised above Anders' heart.

“Well, you're not possessed then,” breathed Anders. The elf glared down at him.

“That. Hurt.” he growled. His hand tightened a little around Anders' throat, and the mage squeaked a little in fear.

“Would you believe this is almost reassuringly familiar?” he managed. “Though I'd rather you didn't choke me to death, if you wouldn't mind? Only it's getting hard to breathe, and I'm rather partial to living.”

Fenris sat back and relaxed his grip about the mage's throat. “You are infuriating, mage.” he growled.

“So I'm often told,” replied Anders. “It's part of my natural charm.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Rarely,” he admitted. He squirmed a little. Though shorter than the mage, the elf was heavier than he would have expected; there was a lot of muscle packed into that slender, wiry frame. Fenris was braced over his hips, and Anders was suddenly acutely conscious of his complete lack of clothing beneath the coverlets.

“Do I make you... uncomfortable?” asked Fenris quietly, feeling Anders shift slightly beneath him.

“Frequently,” breathed Anders. “What do you want, Fenris?”

Fenris stared down at him, those intense green eyes boring into him enigmatically. “You truly are oblivious, aren't you?” replied the elf quietly. “You really don't know.”

Bewildered, Anders nodded slowly. He flinched as Fenris brought a hand up to his face; the elf paused, lyrium-laced fingers hovering mere inches from the mage's pale skin, and then slowly he traced his fingertips down the side of Anders' face. His touch was the merest featherlike ghosting sensation across Anders' skin, and the mage couldn't repress a faint shiver as his confused brown eyes were transfixed by that steady green gaze.

“Are you afraid of me, Anders?” asked the elf quietly.

“Terrified,” Anders whispered.

“Don't be,” replied Fenris softly, his fingers trailing lightly down Anders' throat.

“Stop- please,” the apostate begged, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Why are you doing this? Where's Hawke?”

The elf froze at the mention of Hawke's name, a shadow passing across his face. “Asleep, no doubt,” he said quietly. “Do not trouble yourself about him. He will live.” He slowly lowered his hand until his fingers were pressed flat upon Anders' chest, his palm directly over his heart. Anders clenched his eyes shut in anticipation of pain.

“I won't hurt you,” said Fenris gently. “Anders, look at me.”

Slowly, unwillingly, Anders opened his eyes and obediently looked up.

“Don't hurt me,” he breathed. “Please.”

“I would never hurt you,” the elf reassured him quietly.

“Past experience begs to differ,” Anders replied nervously.

The elf sat back and huffed long white strands of hair out of his eyes with exasperation. “What can I do to reassure you as to my intentions?”

“I don't even know what your intentions _are!_ ” protested Anders. “Andraste's knickers, Fenris, what do you want of me?”

“You,” replied Fenris simply.

Anders gaped at him, for once lost for words.


	3. Chapter 3

Anders could only stare at Fenris, stunned into silence. Fenris regarded him expectantly. As long moments passed and still the mage remained silent, the elf's face fell and a look of uncertainty crept over his eyes.

"You are silent," he observed quietly. Anders' mouth worked wordlessly as he grasped for anything to say.

"Why me?" he finally managed. "Is this some kind of joke? Did Varric put you up to this or- no, I bet it was Isabela, wasn't it?"

The elf frowned. "This is no joke," he said, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

"I'll bloody kill her," muttered Anders, pushing at the elf as he tried to sit up. With a growl, the elf grasped Anders' wrists in a vice-like grip and slammed him back down upon the bed with his hands pinned above his head; the mage yelped in surprise and stared up at the elf as Fenris crouched over him.

"Why must you make this so difficult?" he growled. Anders' brown eyes widened.

"Y-you mean you're serious?" he stammered.

"Why do you find it so hard to accept?" demanded the elf.

"Because normally you make a point of remarking on how we mages can't be trusted every time I'm in earshot, and you've made no secret of the fact you would quite happily rip my still-beating heart out of my chest as soon as look at me, and I find it hard to believe that has changed between my clinic and here," replied Anders, his eyes narrowing. "You seemed to... I don't know, relax a little around me after you dropped me spine first onto a spear on our last little adventure together..." Fenris winced at the reminder. "But ever since we got back to Kirkwall you've avoided me like the plague. I thought you couldn't stand the sight of me."

Fenris' eyes softened; shifting his grip so he held both the apostate's wrists with one hand, he lowered the other to gently cup Anders' cheek. Anders closed his eyes and flinched; Fenris' breath ghosted warmly over his cheek and against his ear as the elf murmured quietly, "I am truly sorry you were injured. I realised I had been... wrong. About many things. About... you."

Anders opened his eyes slowly, not answering, merely flexing his wrists ineffectually in Fenris' grasp as he stared off to one side.

"I... had not realised..." Fenris shook his head in exasperation. "I am not... familiar with these feelings. Or... expressing them," he added awkwardly. Anders turned his head slightly to glance up at the elf, taking in the slightly lost look in Fenris' eyes. The mage's expression still held wariness, but a little sympathy warmed his amber gaze.

"How long?" he asked quietly.

"Since the cave-in," Fenris replied, his voice hushed.

"You never said a word," breathed Anders.

"I did not know what to say," confessed the elf helplessly.

"That day at my clinic," said Anders, things finally falling into place for him. "You saw-"

"Yes," the elf nodded unhappily. "I saw you and Hawke."

Anders groaned. "Oh Maker, what a mess," he murmured. "Is that why-"

"I could not bear to see you with him," Fenris blurted out. Anders sighed.

"Fenris, did it not occur to you that pinning Hawke's lover naked to a bed – in _Hawke's own house_ – was not perhaps the best way to go about proclaiming your undying love for me?" He twisted his wrists uselessly against Fenris' grasp. "I mean, I'm flattered – don't think I'm not – but, well..."

Fenris gently released Anders' wrists and sat up miserably. Anders moaned.

"Oh Maker, not the puppy eyes," he groaned.

Fenris abruptly pushed himself back off Anders and turned away. "This was a mistake. I should not have stayed. I must go," he muttered as Anders sat up, his eyes following the elf around the room. Fenris glanced back at the mage. "You should forget this ever happened. As should I." He turned away.

"What if I... don't want to?" asked Anders quietly.

Fenris froze.

Behind him, he heard Anders step from the bed and take a step towards him. The elf slowly turned.

Anders stood on the rug beside the bed, clutching the edge of the counterpane to his waist to preserve what little modesty he still retained. He looked a little uncertain of himself. Without the added bulk of his feathered jacket and robes he had a slight air of fragile vulnerability about him.

"You can't just pin a man naked to the bed, declare you love him and then just walk away like that," said Anders quietly.

"What would you have me do?" asked Fenris. "Throw you to the floor and ravish you?"

"That would be a start," Anders' lips quirked in a brief grin as he held up a hand. "Joking! I'm just joking!"

"You are toying with me," Fenris snarled. "I should have known better."

Anders' grin disappeared. "No. I'm sorry. That was..." He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. "I'm an idiot sometimes. Well, a lot of the time, actually. As well as obviously being bloody clueless, evidently." He took a step towards the elf then halted. "Um. Would you hand me my pants please?"

The elf wordlessly tossed them to the mage, then turned his back to spare Anders his blushes. Anders cleared his throat to indicate Fenris could look again. The elf turned and regarded him sombrely as he took another step forwards, running both hands through his loose hair as he tried to gather his thoughts.

"This is... well." Anders laughed nervously. "I certainly never saw this coming, Never in a million years." He glanced up at the elf. "You hate mages."

"Evidently not all mages," Fenris pointed out.

"Quite," replied Anders. "Present company excepted, eh?"

"Something like that," agreed Fenris. Anders turned and started to slowly pace; Fenris folded his arms and watched.

"Don't get me wring, Fenris; it's not that I'm not attracted to you – you are, make no mistake, a very attractive man. I'd have to be a eunuch not to have noticed."

"But."

Anders nodded. "But... " He stopped pacing and turned around to look at the elf. "Hawke."

"You love him." It was a flat statement; Anders' eyes softened and he nodded.

"I do," he said gently.

"And you don't love me."

"Andraste's knicker-weasels, Fenris, I barely even _know_ you in that way!" cried Anders. "Up until I woke just now I thought you hated me and could barely restrain yourself from wanting to kill me, and now you've turned everything on its head! I don't know _what_ I feel right now other than confused." He gestured hopelessly.

Fenris dropped his gaze to the floor, clenching his hands into fists. Then slowly he raised his head and stared the mage in the eye, a look of steely determination upon his face.

"What?" said Anders. "Fenris-"

And then the elf was upon him, grasping his biceps in a vice-like grip as he thrust Anders backwards until the man's back slammed into the wall. Anders tried to cry out but was silenced as the elf kissed him fiercely in a clash of lips, teeth and tongues; the elf panting hungrily as he claimed Anders' mouth for his own, nipping at the soft pink lips as Anders gasped before the elf plundered the man's mouth with his tongue, hard and insistent, his knee thrust between Anders' thighs, forcing his legs apart.

Anders moaned, his lips parting willingly, eyes fluttering closed and his own breath coming haltingly as Fenris' assault upon his mouth continued. He started to lift his hands up towards Fenris, but the elf grasped his wrists and pinned them to the wall above his head with one hand whilst the other snaked into the soft blond hair, gripping it tightly as he continued to bite and suck Anders' lips.

"What the hell is going on?"

Fenris' head snapped round. Beneath his hands, Anders gasped for breath, eyes still closed.

It was Hawke.


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke glared at Fenris, who raised an eyebrow coolly.

Still pinned by the elf's hands, Anders slowly opened his eyes as the silence stretched for minutes; confused, he followed Fenris' gaze to the figure of Hawke who glowered from the doorway.

“Hawke,” he breathed.

“Unhand him, Fenris.” Hawke's voice was cold and commanding.

Fenris turned his gaze back to Anders. He slipped his hand gently out of the silky blond hair and cupped Anders' cheek tenderly, rubbing a lyrium-marked thumb over the mage's lips. His brands briefly flared into silvery light and Anders closed his eyes and moaned softly as he felt the searing touch spark a responding flare of magic within him, every vein aflame with its quicksilver kiss, a wave of dizziness flowing through him before the light and the feeling faded. Fenris released his hands and his arms fell limply to his sides as he slid down the wall with a groan. He was only vaguely aware of the elf's departing footsteps; he was oblivious to the parting glares between Fenris and Hawke.

“Anders?” A hand cupping his cheek again, but different – the hand larger, the palm dry and calloused. “Anders, are you alright?”

Anders opened his eyes slowly as he leaned into the comforting touch. “I- I think so,” he murmured.

“What did he do to you?” Hawke frowned as Anders blinked up at him dazedly.

“I'm not sure,” he managed to reply. “I've never felt anything like it before.” He stared into space for a moment, then seemed to suddenly snap back into himself again. “Hawke! Your wound – you shouldn't be up yet-”

“I'm fine,” Hawke smiled. “You did a wonderful job on me, as always – I doubt there'll even be a scar.”

“I very much doubt that; I'm good, but I'm no miracle worker,” replied Anders dryly as he pushed himself up away from the wall. “Come over here into the light where I can get a better look at it.” He shook his head as he tugged at Hawke's tunic.

Hawke laughed good-naturedly and began to strip off his tunic and shirt.

“You're just looking for an excuse to get me naked,” he teased as Anders gently probed the healing wound with his fingertips, pursing his lips as he traced a hand lightly over the reddened flesh. The wound had closed up and knitted together well, but Anders was less optimistic about scarring than Hawke. Still, what were a few more scars when added to the tally of others Hawke had gained over the years?

“I don't need an excuse,” Anders replied with a slight smile, glancing up at Hawke.

Hawke's answering smile was almost feral. “Glad to hear it,” he said tersely. He caught Anders' wrist in his strong grip and drew the slender man against him. The smile faded. “What was Fenris doing in here?” he asked, his steel-grey eyes boring into Anders.

“He was here when I woke,” replied Anders truthfully. “I was as surprised to find him in here as you were, believe me.”

Hawke's frown deepened as his grip on the mage's slender wrist tightened. Anders winced slightly. “Love, please,” he protested quietly.

Hawke brought his other hand up to cradle Anders' face, his thumb brushing over the full pink lips in unconscious mimicry of Fenris' gesture. Then he slid his hand through the dishevelled blond hair in a caress before grasping Anders' chin in his hand and forcing the mage's eyes to meet his own.

“Love, you're hurting me,” whispered Anders.

“You're mine,” said Hawke sombrely. Then he kissed him, hard, almost savagely. Anders' lips parted willingly as he thrust his tongue into the smaller man's mouth, probing hard and insistently as Anders closed his eyes and yielded with a faint moan.

 

* * *

 

Varric tossed the amulet over Anders, who caught it with a frown.

“What do you make of that, Blondie?” he asked as Anders turned it over in his hands.

“I'm not sure,” replied Anders. He scraped his thumbnail against the metal thoughtfully. “I've seen something like this once before.” He suddenly shuddered and dropped the amulet, wiping his hands on his patchwork leather tunic with a look of disgust.

“Blondie?”

Anders shook his head as he turned away. “It's nothing. Just a worthless trinket,” he muttered.

“Anders?” Hawke raised an eyebrow as the mage stumbled away; Fenris raised his head and turned to watch Anders, eyes narrowed.

“I'm fine, I just need some air,” the mage muttered as he made his way towards the cave exit, face paler than usual.

“He doesn't look very well,” remarked Merrill curiously. “Do you think he ate something funny?”

“Unlikely,” Isabela snorted as she bent to pick up the amulet, turning it over in her hand curiously. “He'd have to actually _eat_. Silly man practically starves himself to feed his patients.”

Fenris stared towards the cave mouth. “It's not safe for the mage to wander off by himself,” he remarked. “I'll go-”

“No, I'll go,” Hawke declared. Fenris glanced back at him and raised an eyebrow as Hawke drew his blade and headed for the cave mouth. He gave the elf a belligerent stare as he passed.

“Don't take it to heart, elf,” said Varric quietly. “He just takes Blondie's safety a little more... _personally_ since that last trip.”

“As do I,” replied Fenris tersely as he flexed his hands within his spiked gauntlets and made to follow. He paused as Varric laid a hand on his forearm.

“I wouldn't, elf,” warned the dwarf seriously.

“Take your hand off me,” growled the elf as the lyrium lines in his flesh started to glow. Varric lifted his hand away and held it up appeasingly as he stepped back

“Easy, elf,” he said calmly. “Just warning you. Hawke doesn't like to share his toys.”

Fenris' eyes narrowed. “Nor do I.”

“Oh brother,” groaned Isabela as the elf stalked after the mage and the warrior. “There goes trouble looking for somewhere to happen.”

“Or someone to happen to,” observed Merrill.

 

Outside the cave, Anders leaned against a nearby tree, breathing deeply and trying not to throw up. He leaned against the rough bark, the images replaying themselves through his head like a nightmare he couldn't wake from. He reeled from the onslaught, pushing himself away from the tree trunk and staggering a few more paces before falling heavily to his knees, doubling over as he clutched his head against a flood of memories not his own. He could still feel the ghost sensation of a brand burning into his forehead, smell burning flesh that was not his and yet somehow his at the same time.

“She was just a child – just a child!” he moaned, shuddering violently; he was dimly aware of tears flooding down his cheeks.

“Anders!” Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly; he struggled briefly until the gentle voice slowly penetrated his distraught mind. The voice was familiar, comforting; the armoured body holding him close was clad in dark steel, not the pristine white of Templar armour.

“Hawke,” he managed weakly, and slumped against his lover, giving himself over to weeping.

“Anders, what's wrong?” Hawke asked tenderly, brushing his loose blond hair back out of his eyes. “Who was just a child?”

“What's wrong? Is he hurt?” Another voice, low and husky, but with the same tone of concern as Hawke. _Fenris._

Hawke's head jerked up and he glared at the elf. Fenris raised a hand placatingly as he crouched down beside him. “This is not the time for us to quarrel, Hawke,” he said quietly. “I share your concern for him. What is wrong? He said the amulet was but a trinket....”

“I don't know,” answered Hawke distractedly as he cradled the weeping man, staring down at Anders helplessly. “I found him like this; I can't get anything out of him.”

Anders slowly pulled himself together, blinking back his tears. “The amulet,” he managed to choke out. “It belonged to a girl – a mage. She – she was wearing it when the templars.... oh Maker, Hawke, they made her Tranquil, and I could _feel_ it, I could feel what she felt – oh Andraste's tears, it was worse than dying, Hawke, and she was only a child!”

Hawke held him close as tears threatened to overcome the mage again.

“But how did the amulet end up here?” asked Fenris quietly. “I thought we were following slavers, not templars?”

“They sold her,” Anders managed to choke out between gritted teeth. “They made her Tranquil and sold her to the slavers. The perfect slave – a half-alive girl who never harmed anyone, always did what she was told, an obedient child – and now she'll be obedient and docile forever!”

“Venhedis!” swore the elf. He leapt to his feet and strode back towards the cave. Hawke ignored him, his attention focused on Anders, who had sunk his head into his hands. “Oh Maker,” he moaned quietly. “Hawke....”

“We'll find her,” answered Hawke as confidently as he could. “We'll get her back.”

Anders shook his head. “Too late,” he sighed. “The kindest thing we could do for her would be to put her out of her misery. Hawke,” he looked up and laid a trembling hand upon the warrior's cheek. “Promise me something.”

“Anything,” murmured Hawke gently.

“If the templars should take me and make me Tranquil... promise me you'll kill me yourself. Please.” The brown eyes pleaded with him, glistening with the threat of further tears. “Don't leave me a walking ghost like that. Promise me.”

“I won't let the templars take you,” Hawke promised. Anders shook his head.

“Hawke, please. If I can't do it myself... you must promise me you'll end my life yourself, rather than leave me like that.”

Hawke closed his eyes against that pleading gaze, and slowly nodded his head. “I promise.”

 

As Hawke slowly led Anders back into the cave, Varric, Isabela and Merrill turned as one, eyes questioning. Anders was leaning against Hawke, eyes still red-rimmed and chest occasionally hitching with half-formed sobs, but otherwise he seemed more himself.

“You OK Blondie?” said Varric. Anders nodded.

“I'll be OK,” he said quietly.

“Varric, looks like we've stumbled on something bigger than we thought,” said Hawke. “Looks like we've got ourselves a group of corrupt templar, making mages Tranquil to order and selling them as slaves.”

“Andraste's tits!” swore Isabela. “How-”

“The amulet,” replied Anders. “Somehow – I'm not sure of the why or how of it – the memories of the girl who wore it were imprinted upon the amulet; when I held it, I could feel and see everything that happened to her. Where is it? I need to have another look at it.”

“Are you sure that's wise?” asked Hawke. “You were hit pretty hard by it the first time.”

Anders nodded. “I'm sure,” he replied firmly. “I know what to expect now, and we need to know every possible detail.”

“But we don't have it,” said Merrill. “Fenris took it.”

“What?” Anders' eyes widened. “But- why? Where did he go?”

“I don't know,” replied the elf helplessly. “He came back in, snatched it off Isabela, muttered something about 'laying ghosts to rest' and ran off.”

Anders groaned and pressed his palm to his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache start to pulse there. “Bloody fool elf,” he groaned.

“So now what?” asked Varric. “We go after Broody? Or do we go back, tell Aveline, and trust the elf to come back in his own sweet time?”

“We take what we've got here and we go tell Aveline,” replied Hawke decisively. “We don't have the resources to tackle corruption in the templars directly ourselves, and I don't want to risk them coming after Anders and Merrill.”

“So we leave Fenris to fend for himself?” said Isabela, raising an eyebrow.

“You have a problem with that?” demanded Hawke, belligerently.

“Hey now,” protested Varric. “I thought we were all friends here?”

“Friends don't abuse the trust and hospitality of friends,” scowled Hawke. “After what he-”

“Hawke,” Anders said quietly, shaking his head. “Not now. Please.” Hawke opened his mouth to protest, but Anders raised his head and stared at him wearily. Hawke closed his mouth and frowned, but let it go. The look in his eyes warned Anders that there would be words had later however. He groaned and turned away.

Maker, but he was so tired. They'd been “having words” over Fenris' assault on Anders nearly a month ago, and he didn't think he could face another fight over it now. Maker only knew how the group had managed to still operate together these past few weeks. Maybe the elf running off on his own like this was a blessing in disguise.

Putting his hands to his forehead as the others started gathering up loot and preparing for the hike back to Kirkwall, Anders gently channelled a little healing to lift the pain that was throbbing behind his eyes. It was going to be a long walk, and the air felt heavy and humid.

Maybe they would make it back before the storm broke.


	5. Chapter 5

The storm had broken shortly before they reached the city. Hawke, Varric and Isabela had gone straight in search of Aveline; Hawke had wanted to drag Anders with them, but uncharacteristically Merrill had put her foot down and insisted Hawke leave the mage be, insisting on walking back with him to his Darktown clinic.

“We'll talk later,” Hawke said quietly to Anders as they prepared to go their separate ways. Anders groaned inwardly but nodded. Their parting kiss was brief and almost perfunctory, their minds on other things – Hawke's on how he would persuade Aveline to take news of the templars' corruption seriously, Anders' on the plight of the unfortunates doubtlessly waiting for him at his clinic.

“I don't need an escort, Merrill,” he remarked as they made their way through Lowtown.

“Of course you don't,” she agreed. “I just thought you might like the company. And someone to talk to. If you wanted to, that is.”

“There's nothing to talk about,” replied Anders tersely.

“You're not happy any more.”

His footsteps slowed. “I'm... why....” He halted and stared down at the slender Dalish woman. Merrill smiled up at him sympathetically.

“When you first moved in with Hawke, I asked if you were happy. Do you remember?”

He nodded. “And I said I supposed I was.”

“Well, you don't seem very happy any more. He doesn't seem to make you happy the way he used to. You don't smile so much. You're grumpy again.”

He rubbed his eyes tiredly with the palms of his hands. “Merrill, I have a lot to be- to be 'grumpy' about right now,” he replied. He lowered his hands as he felt her small hand pat his arm, and he looked down at her as she gave him another sad smile.

“Come back to my house,” she suggested. “Cerridwyn next door has a cat. You like cats, don't you? Come and stroke the cat, and you can talk if you feel like it. Or you can just play with the cat if you'd rather.”

He stared down at Merrill. Then he gave a smile. “Yes. I'd like that,” he admitted. She smiled back in return and grabbed his hand. “Come on, it's not far,” she grinned. “I might even have some stew left. You don't eat enough, you're too skinny.”

Anders let himself be led off to the alienage by the cheerful Merrill. The clinic had waited this long; an hour or two longer wouldn't hurt.

The cat wasn't a tabby, but she was affectionate, soft and warm, and curled up contentedly purring, a warm black-and-white furry ball in Anders' arms as he shovelled stew into himself. Merrill had babbled good-naturedly at him whilst bustling around her small, sparsely-furnished house – not much more than a couple of rooms really, though her bed seemed more comfy than the bare cot he slept on back at the clinic – fetching bowls and heating up the stew. Anders had simply sat, playing happily with the cat, whilst Merrill's quiet lilting chatter washed over him.

He set the bowl aside, empty, and tickled the cat under the chin; she stretched and rolled over onto her back on his lap, purring loudly. He ventured daring fingers down onto the inviting furry tummy, half-expecting her to pounce on his hand – Ser Pounce-a-lot had had a ticklish tummy, and invitations to stroke it had frequently been a prelude to a play-fight, but this cat seemed to enjoy tummy tickles. She tucked her paws up under her chin and squinted at him, purring louder.

“You miss your cat a lot, don't you?”

“I do,” agreed Anders. “Cats are uncomplicated creatures; give them a warm bed, food, the odd mouse to chase and stroking on demand, and they're happy.”

“Is an Anders a complicated creature then?” asked Merrill, sitting herself down next to him. He chuckled wryly.

“Not so complicated as you might think,” he replied. “We like warm beds and food too. Though, maybe not so much the mice bit.”

“And the stroking bit?” she asked. “Is that why you wear the feathers?”

He laughed. “They _are_ soft and stroke-able, aren't they?” he smiled.

“Fenris seems to think so,” mused Merrill. The laughter died in Anders' throat.

“Oh dear. I said something wrong again, didn't I?” Merrill fretted, as Anders lowered his face to nuzzle the cat's nose.

“No....” Anders sighed. He sat back and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. “What am I going to do? I didn't ask for this, Merrill. I love Hawke. He's been the one bright spot in my existence these past months.”

“But not any more?”

Anders opened his eyes and leaned forward to bury his face in his hands. “Since Fenris,” he groaned. “He's become... more possessive. Demanding. It's as though he blames me somehow.”

“Some might say you're a lucky man,” mused Merrill quietly. “Few can say they have the love of one good man. You have the love of two.” She glanced up at him. “It must be very hard being in the middle.”

He moaned quietly. The cat nuzzled his hands with a small “mew?” then rubbed her head against his, purring quietly.

“Do you love Fenris?” she asked quietly. Anders jerked back upright.

“What? No! I mean-” He ran a hand through his hair and fisted it. “I barely know him. I never dreamed... I thought he hated me!”

“Hate and love are very similar,” mused Merrill. “Do you hate him?”

“No,” replied Anders, slowly. “I don't hate him. I think I infuriate him. He... confuses me,” he finished haltingly, releasing his hair and letting his hand fall back onto his lap. The cat nuzzled it, butting it with her head until he automatically began to stroke her again.

“It's obvious what Hawke and Fenris both want. What does Anders want?” Merrill asked quietly.

He laughed disbelievingly. “You're the first person to ask me that,” he mused. He gathered up the cat in his arms and buried his face in her soft black fur.

“I want things to go back to the way they were,” he moaned quietly. “I want Hawke to look at me with love again, instead of jealousy – I want him to see me as _me_ , Anders, not as something to possess and fight over.”

“And Fenris to hate you again?”

“No... I don't want that,” Anders replied, shaking his head. “I just want him to see, to _understand_ – that not all mages are alike. We're not all Tevinter magisters. We just want the chance to live normal lives, like anyone else.”

“He never had a normal life,” replied Merrill matter-of-factly. “So how can he understand why anyone else would want something he never knew?”

“That doesn't mean he has the right to deny it to others!”

“He's never denied it to you,” she pointed out. “He's had plenty of opportunities to set the templars on you. You don't exactly hide yourself away in Darktown; it would be pretty easy for the templars to find the apostate running a free clinic. But he hasn't.”

The cat kneaded his shoulder with her paws, purring loudly; for a few minutes, her purrs were the only sound in the room as Anders stared into space, thoughtful. “No, he hasn't,” he replied thoughtfully. “Nor has he told them about you.”

“One elf looks like another to the templars,” Merrill shrugged. “And I don't seem to annoy him the way you do. Perhaps because it's not me he cares about.”

“You're confusing me, Merrill,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Oh, that makes a nice change then,” remarked Merrill brightly. “Normally it's me who's the confused one.”

 

* * *

 

It was with a lighter heart that Anders bade Merrill goodbye and reluctantly pulled himself away from the cat. The rain had started again, but little more than drizzle made its way through the layers of Kirkwall to Darktown; down in the darker reaches of the city it was little more than a foetid mist that permeated everything damply. It wasn't enough to dampen Anders' spirits however; he had a slight spring in his step that he hadn't realised he'd been missing.

He still didn't know what he was going to do about Fenris and Hawke, but he felt more optimistic now that they would be able to resolve things somehow.

As he arrived back at his clinic, he pressed a hand against the worn wood of the door as he reached inside his robes for the key, then froze as the door swung open at his touch.

He stared into the dark interior of the clinic, a chill running down his spine. Something was wrong. Every sense screamed danger; he could feel Justice uncoiling within his mind; firmly he clamped down on the spirit as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

And then a hand roughly shoved him from behind, sending him staggering into the dark as the door slammed shut behind him. He reached inside himself for his magic but felt nothing... an emptiness where it should be; and the furious roaring of Justice was somehow muted, as though the spirit were walled off, impotent and unable to help his human host.

Templars.

His heart sank as the lantern flickered into life, revealing the three templars who had been waiting for him. Behind him, the fourth placed a gauntleted palm against the small of his back and shoved him forwards roughly.

He caught himself on the edge of the examination table and stared round at the impassive faces.

“So, here you are, Anders,” said a familiar voice. Anders spun round, his back against the hard edge of the table, as Ser Alrik advanced towards him. “Like a rat in a trap. I must say, this hovel seems a fitting hole for you.”

Anders glared at him. “So you've found me,” he growled. “Well done. I've only been hiding in plain sight here for the past three years; you're slipping. Finally got bored of terrorising little children did you?”

Ser Alrik backhanded him hard; his head snapped back under the force of the blow, and he cried out briefly. He could taste blood in his mouth.

“I told you that mouth of yours would get you into trouble one day, Anders,” the templar smiled coldly. “I'm looking forward to taking you in.” A hand fisted in Anders' hair from behind and suddenly he was yanked backwards, sprawled over the table, as Alrik bent over him.

“They're onto you,” snapped Anders. “No matter what you do to me, there's too much evidence against you. They know what you've been doing, Alrik. Hawke will stop you. We know about the Tranquil slaves. Hawke will make Elthina see reason!”

“I shall look forward to performing the Rite upon you myself,” Alrik hissed. “And then....” He reached up and cupped Anders' cheek in mockery of tenderness as the mage flinched, eyes widening in fear. “Oh yes, I shall enjoy this.”

“I'd sooner die,” breathed Anders. Alrik began to laugh as the apostate began to struggle desperately, even as the other templars moved forward to restrain him. Alrik continued to laugh as he stood back and picked up a small flask.

“Drug him. Then bring him to the Gallows,” he ordered, handing the flask to one of the templars before walking slowly to the door. He laughed as he heard the mage begin to scream, struggling helplessly against the three armoured men.

He'd been looking forward to this day for a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic violence including sexual assault

Anders began to thrash and struggle wildly at the mention of being drugged, kicking out and trying to pull free from the hands restraining him. The hand in his hair tightened, slamming his head back against the wooden table surface as gauntleted hands clamped onto his wrists. He felt hands trying to restrain his legs; he lashed out with his foot and was rewarded with the feeling of his foot connect solidly with someone's groin and a high-pitched yelp and he grinned fiercely in spite of his predicament, but his triumph was shortlived as he was abruptly backhanded across the face.

“Hold him!” snapped a voice, and he was suddenly wrenched upright and the templar behind him twisted his left wrist up behind his back sharply. Anders cried out briefly as his shoulder was wrenched painfully, the joint aflame, then abruptly he was silenced by a solid, armoured punch to his stomach. He tried to double over, retching, but the fist in his hair held him upright as he vomited. He heard an expression of disgust, and hoped he'd managed to get those shiny white templar boots with the half-digested remains of Merrill's stew.

Then an armour-plated knee connected squarely with his groin and he screamed helplessly as he was yanked sharply backwards onto the table. He felt the templar in front of him climb on top of him, pinning his legs and crushing his chest as he gasped for breath. A hand roughly grasped his chin and prised his lips open to jam the mouth of the flask between his teeth, and a bitter, oily liquid filled his mouth, choking him. He coughed and gagged and tried to spit it out, but suddenly a gloved hand was clamped firmly over his mouth and nose so he couldn't breathe.

His eyes flew wide open and he struggled anew, twisting and writhing helplessly in the grasp of his captors, but to no avail. He arched his back, lungs burning as he desperately tried to draw a breath. The templar leaning over him grinned viciously down at him as he gripped the helpless apostate's throat in one gloved hand and began to massage it. Anders fought the instinctive urge to swallow as Justice raged futilely in the back of his mind, unable to to do anything under the smothering powers of the three templars.

Anders could feel himself weakening as black stars burst behind his eyes, and finally his control slipped. He swallowed, the bitter liquid sinking like a cold ball into his stomach; and suddenly he could breathe again. He gasped raggedly, the sound hoarse and rough as his chest heaved.

The hand cupped his chin again. “No... please....” he begged, but in vain as the flask was forced into his mouth again and a second draught followed the first. He struggled weakly as the hand once again cut off his air, fingers massaging his throat painfully until he swallowed. As the flask was pressed to his lips for the third time, he gave up the struggle and swallowed the drug without fighting; too spent, in pain and exhausted to resist any longer.

He could feel his limbs growing heavy and cold, as though ice were creeping through his veins.

“I owe that bastard payback,” he heard one of the templars growl.

“We're not here for that,” replied one of the others.

“Ser Alrik will have his fun with him – why shouldn't we?” replied the third. Anders lay quiescent under their grasp, eyes closed. His eyes flickered open again as he felt gloved hands fumbling at his belt. He tried to cry out, to beg them no, but his tongue felt thick and swollen, and all he managed was a faint sound of distress as rough hands turned him over onto his stomach.

“I'll have none of this,” warned the second templar.

“Fine,” snapped the first. “Go keep watch. I'm going to teach this bastard a lesson; he'll be begging to be made Tranquil by the time I'm done.” The hands were tugging at his pants, and he whimpered as the fabric was drawn roughly down to his knees, a chill breeze from the door kissing his bare skin.

"This isn't what we took oath for!" argued the second templar. There were sounds of scuffling as Anders lay helpless upon the table, his cheek pressed against the hard wood. He felt the cold touch of metal gauntlets as the templar behind him parted his buttocks, then he shuddered as the templar thrust his finger against his entrance. As Justice raged helplessly, Anders quietly keened as the finger pushed past the tight ring of muscle and was forcefully thrust inside him, the metal gauntlet tearing and scraping the vulnerable flesh as he was penetrated deeply. The templar started to work his finger in and out of Anders' body, the joints of the metal gauntlets catching inside against the fragile skin, the warm slick of blood doing nothing to ease the friction.

A second armoured finger pushed in roughly beside the first, and Anders shuddered, whimpering as he was violated, the fingers scissoring inside, stretching and tearing him further. A third finger was forced inside and he gasped, feeling his skin rip like wet paper inside. His limbs felt like ice; he couldn't even lift his head from the rough wooden surface of the table. He could only lie there, helpless, tears trickling down his face as the fingers thrust hard into his abused body. Then they were roughly jerked out and he moaned in anguish, feeling something hot and wet trickle slowly down his thigh. The thick head of the templar's cock pressed against his bleeding entrance. He closed his eyes and prayed for it all to be over soon; for the drug to steal away his consciousness, for anything but this, here, now.

A brilliant, blinding silvery light suddenly lit up the dark room, “Unhand him!” roared a familiar voice. Anders managed to open his eyes, a faint, incredulous smile dawning on his bruised lips as he moaned with relief. He tried to speak the elf's name, but could only manage a faint croak as waves of dizziness swept over him.

Then suddenly the templar hold over his power was gone, as shouts rang out to the chime of blades. Justice roared triumph in his mind, and as spirit energy danced over his skin, Anders gratefully surrendered control to the spirit, his mind spiralling away into unconsciousness as Justice possessed him.

 

* * *

 

Fenris had taken the templars by surprise.

He had thought to find the mage alone, but the sounds of voices and a struggle alerted him to trouble as he approached the clinic. He heard Anders cry out in pain, and instantly his greatsword was in his hand as he threw back the rough wooden door, taking in the scene at a glance as he willed the lyrium brands in his skin to life, bathing the room with a brilliant silvery-white light.

Anders was sprawled over the edge of the examination table, his pants around his knees. A templar stood behind him, one hand fisted in the apostate's hair, the other upon his cock as he paused in the act of raping the mage. Two other templars were scuffling, one appearing to be trying to prevent the rape about to take place. Fenris only had eyes for Anders, sprawled helpless, a dark trickle of blood working its way down the inside of his thigh.

Fenris felt a burning, white-hot heat boil up inside as he roared his outrage and leapt at the templar who had dared lay hands on his mage. He was dimly aware of a flare of blue-white spirit energy as the mage suddenly lurched upright beneath the hands of the startled templar; Anders' eyes burned with the white fire of Justice as he raised a hand and called forth fire.

The fight was bloody but brief. Three templars stood no chance against a lyrium ghost wielding death and a Fade-spirit-possessed mage. In a short space of time – perhaps a handful of heartbeats – Fenris and Justice were the only beings still standing.

“They were waiting.” Justice nodded.

“ _Your arrival was almost timely,_ ” replied the spirit. Fenris nodded, kicking at the templar who had held Anders down; he had ripped the man's heart out from his chest.

“What did they do to him?” he asked, certain he would not like the answer. As the spirit replied, his face darkened.

“We killed them too quickly,” he growled.

Justice nodded. “ _Still, Justice has been served,_ ” the spirit replied.

“Justice? Or vengeance?” replied the elf. The spirit shrugged.

“ _It is all one,_ ” it replied hollowly.

“I doubt Anders would agree,” said Fenris slowly. The spirit shrugged again.

“ _We fight well together, elf,_ ” it replied. “ _The mages' cause could use you. With you and I united, the templars could not hope to stand against us._ ”

Fenris' lip curled bitterly as he stepped towards Justice. “I care nothing for your cause,” he sneered. “I care only for one mage – Anders.”

Justice slowly nodded. “ _You care for him._ ” It tilted its head on one side. “ _And... it seems, he also cares for you,_ ” it added, a faint note of surprise in its voice.

Fenris felt his heart leap in his chest. “He... cares for me?” he echoed, stepping close to the familiar form of the mage, letting his sword drop as he reached for the man, staring hopefully into those alien eyes.

“ _Ask him yourself,_ ” replied Justice. The blue-white gaze of the spirit faded to soft brown as Anders gazed dazedly at the elf.

“Fenris?” he murmured, voice slurred. Fenris caught him as his knees buckled, and gently lowered him to the floor.

“Anders?” Fenris cradled the mage gently in his arms and tapped his cheek. “Anders, come back to me. You're safe now.”

Anders opened his eyes slowly, focusing on the elf with difficulty. He seemed to be trying to speak; as Fenris leaned forward, he managed to gasp, “Drugged.” His face grim, Fenris tugged off a gauntlet with his teeth. Gently he pried open the mage's mouth, then thrust two fingers down his throat.

Anders jerked in Fenris' arms, gagging; Fenris gently turned his head to one side as he retched, vomiting up a strange, oily-looking liquid. Fenris held him gently as his body spasmed, stomach twisting and convulsing as he threw up the poison until he lay limp and panting, stomach empty and aching.

“Got to stop meeting like this,” Anders slurred quietly, eyes closed.

Fenris was about to answer when his sharp ears heard the faint scrape of a foot outside the door. Snatching up his sword, he held it ready as he cradled Anders to his chest. “Show yourself,” he hissed.

Lirene edged around the door, a man close behind her; he seemed vaguely familiar. Fenris narrowed his eyes for a moment – ah, yes, one of Anders' assistants here at the clinic. He lowerd the blade slightly, still wary.

Lirene took in the scene – dead templars, Anders unconscious, Fenris eyeing her warily – and turned to the man. “Bran, go to Varric at the Hanged Man. Tell him the clinic's been raided and there's a mess to clean up but the healer is safe. Run.” Bran nodded and left as Lirene gathered her skirts, stepping carefully past the pools of blood and vomit. She crouched next to Fenris and gently laid her hand on Anders' forehead. “They didn't make him Tranquil. Thank the Maker.”

“I arrived barely in time,” replied Fenris quietly. “Not soon enough though.”

Lirene gently turned Anders' face and frowned as she noted the spreading bruise on his cheek, the blood crusted around his nose, the split and swollen lip. “What did they do to him?” she asked, gently opening the feathered jacket and lifting the hem of Anders' shirt. Her frown deepened and she pursed her lips as she noted the blackening bruises across his ribs and stomach.

“Beat him, drugged him,” replied Fenris bitterly. Her eyes dropped to Anders' unlaced trousers and the dark stain spreading down his leg, and she raised one eyebrow at Fenris. Silently, she relaced the pants and smoothed down his shirt.

“We'll need to get him out of here,” she said quietly. “When those three don't return with the healer, they'll send out reinforcements. They'll search all of Darktown.”

“I shall take him back to my home,” replied Fenris. “They will not search Hightown.”

Lirene nodded. “I know a safe way from here to Hightown. I'll show you the way.” She got to her feet and made her way to the back of the clinic, ducking through the thin curtain that closed off the mage's sparse little room from the rest of the clinic. She returned a moment later with a small bundle which she stuffed into the top of Anders' backpack. Fenris swung his greatsword onto his back then carefully rose to his feet with the unconscious mage in his arms.

Lirene led him through a dark maze of tumbledown shacks leaning against each other, sandwiched between crumbling buildings and stone walls. Fenris held Anders close as they began to climb a series of narrow stairs and traversed through a number of small, dark tunnels. At one point they seemed to be passing through a section of the old, abandoned mines that sprawled below Lowtown; Fenris stared about him with interest, taking careful note of the way.

They steadily climbed upwards, the air slowly growing clearer as they rose through to the more affluent areas of Kirkwall. Eventually they emerged up a narrow stair near the servant's entrance to a large house near a garden square. Fenris glanced round to get his bearings, then nodded towards the north exit of the square. Lirene held up a hand before he could take a step. She pulled out a hood from the backpack which she slung over Anders' head.

“Set him down and sling his arm over your shoulder,” she ordered. Fenris did as she ordered, slipping an arm around the mage's waist as he supported the unconscious man. Lirene pulled out a small flask of something and dashed the contents liberally down Anders' front; the smell of cheap brandy wafted up to Fenris' nostrils.

“People will not question two friends helping a drunk friend home,” she explained as she pulled Anders' other arm over her shoulder, helping to support his slender bulk. “And they won't get too close to the smell of cheap liquor.”

Fenris appreciated the woman's quick thinking as they emerged from the passageway into the square and headed north, towards the dilapidated mansion where Fenris had made his home. Though occasional heads turned as they passed, they garnered little more than idle curiosity as they made their way there, and they reached the doors without incident.

Once inside, Fenris swept Anders up into his arms again and carried him up the broad stairway to the room he had claimed for his own, oblivious to the frank, curious stares of Lirene as she stared around the ruined mansion that once had belonged to Denarius the slaver. She paused as she stared at the rotting remains of corpses that Fenris hadn't bothered to remove, then followed him up the stairs.

Fenris carried Anders across the room to his bed and gently laid him down before starting to strip off the mage's jacket and tunic. Lirene placed the backpack at the side of the bed then bent to help him, undressing Anders. Fenris left her to it as he made his way down to the kitchen, returning with a pitcher of water, a bowl and cloths. Together, the woman and the elf set about cleaning the unconscious mage up, and then Lirene gently dressed his wounds. They worked together in companionable silence, no words needed as they cared for Anders.

Then Fenris sank down upon the counterpane and took one of Anders' hands between his own, staring intently into the still face as Lirene quietly took her leave.

“There's another apostate in Darktown – one of the ones Anders and Hawke freed recently from the Gallows,” she said quietly. “I'll send him to you at full dark. He's a healer – maybe not quite as good as Anders, but still....”

Fenris nodded. “You have my thanks,” he answered quietly.

Lirene stared down at Anders. “Many in Darktown owe their lives to the healer,” she replied. “We look after our own – Maker only knows, no-one else will.”

Fenris glanced up at her. “I will not forget this,” he promised.

She gave him a long, level stare, then nodded. “Look after him well, Ser Elf,” she replied quietly.

Then he and Anders were alone.


	7. Chapter 7

The sun was setting as there came a pounding at the door. Hawke burst into the foyer of the ruined house, yelling for Fenris, the others following at his heels.

“Up here, Hawke,” Fenris called, not taking his eyes from Anders' face. The mage was sleeping peacefully; Fenris had sat unmoving by his side, holding the mage's hand and watching him as he slept, stirring only when Lirene had returned with the healer. He had moved aside for the mage to tend to Anders, then returned to his silent vigil once they were alone again.

Hawke took the stairs two at a time and flung himself into the room, pausing only for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim dying light from the dusty windows.

“Is he...” he breathed, unable to finish.

“Merely sleeping,” replied Fenris, not looking round. Hawke crossed the room in hasty strides and sank down upon the bed on the opposite side to the elf, reaching for Anders' other hand. “Lirene's message said he was safe,” he said quietly. “What happened?”

“Templars,” replied Fenris tersely. “It seems Anders was correct about Ser Alrik. The evidence we found in the cave was but one more piece of the picture. Anders himself...” His voice tailed off, and he glanced sideways at Hawke. “Did you convince Aveline of the templars' corruption?”

“He did,” replied Aveline, striding forward. “Anders' testimony would go a long way however towards persuading the Grand Cleric to take it seriously.”

“I fear Anders' testimony will be more damning than you could imagine,” answered the elf quietly as he rose and drew aside the coverlets. Hawke glanced across, and his eyes widened as he trailed his eyes down the sleeping mage's body, taking in the fading bruises, and then his gaze reached lower. Anders was clad in only his smalls beneath the grey blanket, and the dark stain of blood was all too obvious against the pale linen.

He snatched the blanket away from Fenris and spread it over Anders' legs with a cry of outrage, but Aveline had seen the stain. “Oh Maker,” she murmured as her hand flew to her mouth. “They didn't-”

“Fenris!” growled Hawke. The elf held up a hand.

“No, they did not rape him. I arrived barely in time. But they did hurt him, and I have no doubt that had I not arrived when I did, then they would have done so. They drugged him, and planned to take him to the Gallows where Alrik planned to perform the Rite of Tranquility upon him.”

Hawke groaned and sank back onto the bed, reaching out a hand to stroke the tousled blond hair of the sleeping man. “I should have kept him with me,” he muttered. “I should never have let him go back to that clinic.”

“Would you keep the man a prisoner in your house?” sneered Fenris.

“Better a prisoner than Tranquil!” snapped back Hawke, glaring at the elf. “And where were you, anyway? You ran off by yourself with never a backwards glance!”

Fenris reached into his tunic and pulled out the amulet from the cave, throwing it down upon the bed.

“I was doing what he could not,” he growled.

“What is that supposed to mean?” demanded Hawke, rising from the bed once more. “Since when did you give a damn about mages anyway?”

“It mattered to him. Therefore it mattered to me,” replied Fenris, unperturbed.

“Will you both please stop shouting?” murmured Anders quietly from the bed. All eyes instantly turned to him as he opened his eyes and stared at the two rivals.

“Anders-” began Fenris, as Hawke said “Love-”; both men broke off and scowled at each other. Anders pushed himself up into a sitting position and stared down at the amulet, then glanced at Fenris.

“You found her?” he asked softly. The elf nodded sombrely. Anders stared down at the amulet, then silently reached for it. His fingers brushed the metal surface, still warm from Fenris' body heat-

 _-as Fenris fell upon the four slavers like a force of nature, all silent fury and rage. Lightening licked across the sky, followed moments later by the crack of thunder as the heavens opened._

 _The girl stood listlessly where she had stopped, staring dully as Fenris' sword dipped and swooped in a graceful dance of death. Lyrium brands flared white-hot as he phased into incorporeality, a lyrium ghost whose touch was death as his hand reached into hearts, stopping them abruptly._

 _Blood fountained wet and glistening as the last slaver fell, and the elf stood before the girl. The brand upon her forehead was still red, angry and raw; her eyes as she raised them to his were dull and empty._

 _“Who are you?” she asked, her voice curiously flat. In answer, Fenris pulled the amuet from beneath his breastplate and pressed it into her hands. As the glowing lyrium lines upon his fingers brushed against her hands, her eyes flew open wide, and she stared at him in awe._

 _“What are you?” she breathed, wonderingly. “It's like you bring a breath of the Fade with you.”_

 _“I am... a friend,” he replied haltingly, his hands still covering hers as they touched the amulet. As he watched, her eyes slowly filled with tears._

 _“Please,” she begged. “Don't let me go back to that half-life. Don't let me live like this.”_

 _“Are you asking me for death?” he asked quietly. She nodded, eyes glistening with tears._

 _“I can feel myself slipping away again. Please. Don't leave me like this. I beg you, release me. Please!”_

 _Gently he circled the slender girl's body with one arm and pressed the other hand flat over her heart. Slowly he phased his hand into her chest and curled his fingers about her heart; he could feel it fluttering like a caged butterfly against his palm._

 _“I'm sorry,” he said quietly._

 _“Don't be,” she replied softly as she gazed up into his eyes. Her eyes were a soft amber, almost the same as Anders'. He could see them dulling already, returning to the eternal half-life of the Tranquil._

 _He closed his hand, and the amber eyes widened briefly; then as he watched, the life faded and she stared sightlessly at the sky._

 _Gently he laid her down and closed the eyes of the dead girl. He picked up the amulet and tucked it away beneath his breastplate once more as he turned back towards Kirkwall. The rain began to fall, washing the blood away from his body but not the heavy feeling in his heart...._

Anders let the amulet fall from nerveless fingers. He was dimly aware of wetness upon his cheeks and arms surrounding him; Hawke, holding him close. He turned his head, seeking for Fenris.

“Thank you,” he whispered gratefully. The elf dropped to a graceful crouch beside the bed.

“It was the least I could do,” he replied.

Anders reached out a hand to the elf, and Fenris leaned closer. Anders leaned forward, even as Hawke's arms tightened about him, and Fenris found himself captivated by the warmth in the amber eyes that regarded him intensely.

Even as Hawke groaned a soft denial, the elf lifted glowing lyrium hands to cradle Anders' face tenderly. Anders closed his eyes as his lips parted beneath those of Fenris, and for a second time he willingly surrendered to the elf's kiss.

The kiss was cut short as Hawke physically wrestled the slender mage away from the elf; Anders cried out in wordless protest before gasping as Hawke crushed the mage to him tightly.

“No! I will not allow this!” roared Hawke as Anders struggled against his grip. The elf growled ferally and drew back a hand, balling it into a fist as every lyrium line upon his body flared brightly, channelling his rage into silver light.

“Stop it! Stop it, the pair of you!” ordered Aveline as Varric pushed forward to put himself between the furious elf and the angry warrior. Anders fought for breath, Hawke's arms around his chest crushingly tight.

There was a tense silence, punctuated only by Anders' laboured pants. “Too tight... I can't breath,” he gasped. After a few moments, Hawke reluctantly released him, and he fell forward onto his hands, coughing, before slowly crawling away from the warrior.

“Blondie, of all the dumb-assed....” Varric shook his head, staring down at the mage with something akin to sympathy in his eyes.

“Glutton for punishment, me,” Anders replied with a weak laugh, not raising his head.

“What the hell were you thinking?” hissed Hawke. “Did you expect me to sit tamely by whilst you kiss him?”

“Thinking didn't really come into it,” admitted Anders quietly.

Fenris stood silently, staring fixedly at the bowed blond head.

“This is embarrassing,” muttered Aveline, crossing her arms and staring anywhere but at the three men.

“I'm sorry,” Anders said quietly. It wasn't clear precisely who he was apologising to.

Varric sighed and ran a hand through his red-gold hair. “I didn't exactly come here to referee your love life, Blondie.”

Anders nodded silently, hunched over on the end of the bed.

“Why did you come?” asked Fenris, still not taking his gaze off the mage.

“I wanted to make sure the mage was OK myself,” replied Varric. “And to make sure Hawke didn't do something he'd regret. I didn't figure on Blondie being the one doing something stupid.”

“It wasn't stupid,” replied Fenris.

“Then what was it?” growled Hawke, pushing himself up off the bed.

“I don't want to hear this,” interrupted Aveline.

“Then leave,” growled Fenris. She turned and glared at him.

“Maybe I should just take Anders into protective custody for his own sake,” she snapped back. Anders sat up, jaw dropping in shock.

“Me? But- what-”

“I won't allow it!” growled Hawke, laying a hand on Anders' shoulder; he wasn't sure if it felt more protective or possessive. Right now, he wasn't sure there was much difference between the two where Hawke was concerned.

“You will not take him,” snarled Fenris, stepping in front of Anders.

“Well, looks like you two _can_ agree on something where Blondie's concerned,” observed Varric.

Anders looked horrified still, staring aghast at Aveline. “Oh, don't look at me like that,” she snapped crossly. “If you didn't keep running off and getting yourself into situations like this then I wouldn't be even making such suggestions in jest. What on earth possessed you to go wandering off back by yourself like that? You know the templars have been asking questions around Darktown about you lately; it was only a matter of time before they raided the clinic.”

“He was supposed to be with Merrill,” replied Hawke, his hand still gripping Anders' shoulder.

“I _was_ with Merrill,” replied Anders. “I went back with her to the alienage. There was a cat-”

Hawke glared down at him. “A _cat?_ ”

“What? I miss cats!” Anders protested, a little defensively.

“Just as well you did, Blondie,” remarked Varric. “If you'd gone straight to the clinic, chances are the elf wouldn't have found you in time.”

Aveline nodded. “You'd be Tranquil by now.”

“No, I'd be dead,” replied Anders quietly. He turned and glanced up at Hawke. “Wouldn't I?”

Hawke dropped his glance then looked away.

“Hawke?” Anders asked quietly. Hawke stared at the floor. Anders stared at Hawke, his eyes uncertain, as long moments passed without answer. He slowly pulled away from Hawke's touch, slipping from the bed, dragging the grey blanket with him as he stumbled over towards the window, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. He huddled in its soft grey folds and pressed his forehead against the dusty glass, gazing sightlessly down at the square below.

Fenris followed, coming to stand a few feet away from the mage.

“I am sorry I did not come in time,” he said quietly. “But I would not have let them make you Tranquil.”

“I know,” said Anders quietly. He pressed a hand to the cold pane. “You were wrong,” he added in a whisper.

Fenris blinked. “Wrong? How?”

Anders' glance slid sideways. “I know what was done to me, Fenris. I could still feel it.” His gaze dropped back to the square below. “But thank you for trying to protect me.”

The elf bowed his head. “I failed you,” he said quietly.

They stood in silence as the sun slowly set.


	8. Chapter 8

"Anders, I know you've been through a lot, but all joking aside - I do need you to come with me and give a statement," said Aveline, taking a step towards the silent mage.

"What? Aveline, are you out of your mind? Look at him - Blondie's in no condition to be going anywhere right now!" replied Varric incredulously.

"The only place he's going is back to my estate!" chimed in Hawke angrily.

"The mage isn't going anywhere," growled Fenris, turning away from the window.

Anders closed his eyes and clutched the grey blanket tighter about himself as voices rose in argument once more. He pressed himself against the glass, eyes tight shut as the cacophony rose around him. He was distantly aware of the sounds of running feet outside in the square and the incongruently innocent sounds of birds settling in for the night.

Even inside his head there was no peace. Justice ranted in the back of his mind as images replayed over and over; the girl's eyes fading in death as she stared up at Fenris  those eyes, so like his own, glazing over as she sank back into Tranquility... the stench of burning flesh as she, as he, was branded, the connection to the Fade cut off - his own memories overlaid with hers as he recalled again that emptiness where the magic should have sung as the templars cut off his magic. Screaming, screams of pain - his? Hers? He couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. He shuddered, remembering again how helpless he felt; hands holding him down, striking him, hurting him... hands down _there_ , pushing inside, violating him as he lay helpless, gloating over how this would be his fate over and over once they had made him Tranquil, and still the shouting, always the shouting, in his ears and in his head and _Maker_ , would it never _stop?_

"Stop it, stop it, _stop it!_ "

He was on his knees, arms wrapped around himself as he pressed his forehead against the glass, tears flowing down his cheeks. There was a stunned silence. Was that his voice? Had he cried aloud?

"Anders?" Hawke's voice was quiet, subdued.

"Make it stop," he whispered hoarsely. "Please, make it stop!"

Arms around, him; cold armour, chill against his bare skin, but as he clenched his fists to his chest the hands that covered his were warm. "Make what stop, love?" Hawke's voice. Hawke's arms, holding him safe.

"The voices... the sounds in my head. Make them go away, make them stop," he begged.

Hawke stared down at the stricken mage, helplessly. “I can't, I don't know how!” he protested. He glanced up as Fenris stepped close and dropped to a crouch beside him. For once, there was no antipathy in his eyes as he turned to the elf. “I don't know how to help him,” he confessed. “What do we do?”

“May I try?” asked the elf cautiously.

“Anything,” replied Hawke fervently. “I can't bear to see him like this.”

“It... pains me also,” admitted the elf quietly. Hesitantly he laid a hand on the mage's shoulder. “Anders, these voices....”

“Justice. And the girl... Alessa. It's like she's a part of me, like Justice, and yet she can't be, she's dead... I don't understand,” Anders tailed off, clutching at his head. “And they won't stop, and I, I can't think straight, it _hurts_ , Maker it _hurts!_ ”

“You said once that spirits are drawn to lyrium,” said Fenris slowly, holding out his hand and staring down at the lyrium lines as he turned his hand over and clenched it, then slowly straightened the fingers again. Anders lifted his head slowly and nodded, comprehension dawning in the amber eyes.

“Yes, it's like catnip to them,” he agreed, his glance flicking from Fenris' hand to the elf's green gaze, faint hope in his eyes.

Fenris glanced up at Hawke. “Will you permit me to try?”

Hawke was silent for a moment, then slowly nodded. Fenris knelt before Anders and reached for the mage.

“Anders, this may not work. There may be... pain. Will you... trust me?”

“Anything,” breathed Anders as he let his hands fall to his sides. Fenris gently took hold of Anders' head, pressing his thumbs lightly to the apostate's forehead above each eye as his fingertips came to rest against Anders' skull. Then the white lines etched into the dusky skin flared once more into silvery brilliance.

Anders' eyes widened and his lips parted with a faint gasp as the lyrium sang in his blood, calling forth a resonance from within his very bones as the magic answered. His back arched and Fenris moved with him, maintaining his grip upon the mage's head as Anders' eyes sheened over with furious blue-white fire and spirit energy crackled dancing over his bare skin; Hawke felt the hairs on his body and head rise upon end as the static hissed and spat. Anders' body seemed to thrum with barely-contained energy, even as his mouth stretched in a soundless scream.

As the radiance streamed forth from Fenris, he gradually became translucent, shining like a lyrium ghost, his fingers slowly sinking through the wild blond hair as Anders closed his eyes; from somewhere deep within the mage there came a deep, almost orgiastic moan, and his face was suffused with a golden glow, features relaxing into a look of pure bliss.

Then Fenris sank back, fading into solid flesh and bone once more, hands falling away from the mage as the blazing silver light faded back to simple white lines again. The golden glow faded from Anders' face as the blue fire lacing across his skin died away. Slowly he curled in upon himself with a faint sigh, slumping in Hawke's embrace.

“Did it work?” asked Aveline, hushed. Hawke looked down at Anders, even as Fenris leaned forward to touch the silent mage's hand.

“Love?” said Hawke quietly, as Anders didn't respond. Fenris gently cupped Anders' chin and tilted his head up; his eyes were still closed, but there was a peaceful expression upon his face that Hawke had not seen there for many months. His chest rose and fell evenly with calm, slow breaths.

“Anders?”

Anders slowly smiled. “It's... quiet,” he murmured.

“Has Justice....” began Hawke; Anders shook his head.

“No. He's still there... but silent. And I can't feel Alessa at all,” he replied softly. “Just... a faint echo, like a memory not quite my own.” He rested his head against Hawke's chest. “I'm tired, love,” he murmured.

“You could stay,” suggested Fenris quietly, regarding Hawke a little uncertainly. “You may... both... have my bed.” He gestured, briefly, his eyes showing a faint forlorn hope. Hawke glanced over at the bed, then back at the elf, before looking down at Anders.

“Love?” he asked quietly.

“I'd like that,” Anders answered quietly.

Varric cleared his throat self-consciously. “And that would be our cue to leave, Aveline,” he suggested.

“But-” she glanced back at Varric, then relented. “Yes, of course, you're right,” she agreed. “Hawke, I'll drop by your estate tomorrow evening to take Anders' statement, if that's alright?”

Hawke nodded. “That's fine, Aveline,” he answered. She regarded him awkwardly, looking as though she were about to add something, then she turned on her heel and followed Varric from the room.

Hawke regarded Fenris thoughtfully. “I...” he began, then stopped. Fenris raised an eyebrow. Hawke shook his head. “It's nothing,” he said. “Let's get Anders back into bed.”

“Anders would like that very much,” murmured the mage as Hawke pulled him up to his feet and started to guide him back towards the bed. Fenris rose to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, and headed towards the door.

“Where are you going?” asked Hawke as he settled a compliant Anders back down upon the pillows.

“To the wine cellar,” replied Fenris. “I need a drink. As, I suspect, do you,” he added, glancing briefly over his shoulder before heading down the stairs.

“Maker, yes,” agreed Hawke fervently, as he pulled the grey blanket up to Anders' chest. “Anders?”

“Not a good idea, much as I'd like to,” replied Anders, snuggling down into the soft bed. “I'd only get maudlin.” He turned his face into the pillow and closed his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

Fenris strode back into the room, heading straight for the battered chairs near the fireplace, noting that Hawke had lit several candles around the room whilst he was gone. Fenris was carrying two bottles by the necks in each hand, with a couple more tucked into the crook of each arm for good measure. He paused by one of the chairs then started an odd balancing act as he transferred the bottles to the low table, attempting not to drop any.

Hawke rose from where he'd stretched himself beside Anders on the bed; all that could be seen of the mage was a tousled mop of blond hair sticking out above the edge of the grey blanket. Faint snores could be heard, muffled by the wool.

“Sure you've got enough there?” asked Hawke, eyeing the bottles as he strode over to the fireplace. “Or were you expecting company?”

“I dislike making repeat trips,” answered the elf, leaning against the mantelpiece as he took a glance at the label on the front of the bottle.

“A decent vintage?” asked Hawke.

“I wouldn't know,” replied the elf dryly, as he broke the wax seal. Hawke grabbed a bottle at random and squinted at the label.

“Hmmph. Antivan. Good year, too,” he remarked as he broke the wax on his bottle; Fenris was already taking a long pull. Hawke decorked his bottle, then set it down and began wrestling with the straps of his armour. Stripping away the chestplate and pauldrons, he sat down and took a swallow of his wine, savouring the rich taste.

“Did he... talk before he fell asleep?”

Hawke shook his head. “Not much. Sleepy babble mostly.” He smiled fondly. “He's cute when he's sleepy.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow as he perched on the edge of his seat. “I hadn't observed,” he said quietly. “He was not... talkative, when Lirene and I brought him here earlier. And he is usually quiet when we are working.”

Hawke nodded. “He doesn't relax when we're away.” He stared down at the bottle in his hand thoughtfully. “Doesn't relax much at all, really, lately. He's always working himself to exhaustion – either in his clinic, or writing.” He took another pull. “Doesn't smile so much either,” he added, tone a little wistful. He stared at the bottle for a moment, then glanced up at Fenris. “This feels damned weird, talking to you like this.”

“About him?”

Hawke nodded. Fenris stared at his own bottle thoughtfully, turning it around in his hands.

“I think I... understand,” he said slowly. He glanced over at the bed, a far-away look in his eyes. “We used to drink, you and I, and talk sometimes. Before he and you... you know.” He dropped his eyes to his hands. “I have missed it,” he admitted quietly.

Hawke paused, the bottle to his lips; he lowered it. “Have you?” he said in surprise.

“Does that seem so strange to you?” Fenris cocked his head on one side. “I have few friends, Hawke. I value those I have. I... regret that there have been harsh words between us.”

Hawke snorted. “You've got a damned funny way of showing it, elf,” he remarked dryly. “Most people don't say sorry to their friends by making moves on their boyfriend.”

Fenris sat straighter, his green eyes flashing in the gloomy half-light. “I did not-”

“You kissed him! In _my house!_ ” Hawke shouted, pointing the neck of his bottle at the elf. “Do you deny it?”

Fenris glowered at the warrior for a moment, then looked away. “No. I do not.”

Hawke glared at him, feeling his anger rising as he pressed his lips together in a thin line. He, too, glanced away, fighting to contain his wrath. Damn it, perhaps a drink was the last thing he needed. Yet even as he thought this, he raised the bottle to his lips and took another swallow.

Fenris rolled the bottle between his palms, staring down at it, seemingly gathering his own thoughts. After long moments of silence, he took another long swallow. Lowering the bottle, he set it down upon the floor between his feet. He stared at it. “Hawke... I do not regret that I kissed him.” He raised his head slowly. “But I do regret that it has put this divide between us.”

Hawke drained his bottle in one long pull then rose to his feet and hurled the empty bottle at the fireplace. It smashed into brilliant green shards against the stones, splashing the dregs like dark blood to soak into the fine grey ash.

“Damn you, elf!” he growled, rounding on Fenris who sat silently, unmoving. “Do you know how I've lain there at night, replaying what I saw through my mind? Wondering what you said, what you did to him – wondering what I did to deserve that? Do you know how I've blamed _him_ for giving into you?”

Fenris rose to his feet swiftly, closing the space between them. “Do not blame him for my-”

“What? Mistakes?” growled Hawke, stepping close - too close; Fenris could smell the wine on his breath like air-born fury and spite. “Is that what you were going to say? Are you going to call _him_ a mistake?” He flung a hand in the direction of the bed. “Go on, say it! Mistake, mage, abomination, _thing!_ ” He flung the words in the elf's face, a world of hurt, fury and bitterness in his voice.

Fenris stood his ground. “Go ahead and hit me,” he said quietly.

Hawke pulled back his hand, balling it into a fist as he reached forward and grasped the front of Fenris' tunic. Fenris rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, hands held passively at his sides as he stared up into the face of the warrior, unafraid, almost daring Hawke to strike. Hawke glared down into the elf's almost-defiant face, lips contorted in a snarl. Finally he thrust the slender elf away from him and turned to the table, reaching for another bottle.

“Is that wise?” asked Fenris, a note of faint concern in his voice. Without a word, Hawke spun back on his heel and backhanded Fenris across the face. Fenris reeled backwards without a sound, staggering back until he fell into his chair. He reached up a hand slowly and wiped blood from his lips.

“It seems I have my answer,” he said quietly.

“Damn you to the Black City, elf,” growled Hawke as he opened the fresh bottle.

“Some would say I am already damned,” Fenris reflected softly. He reached down for the bottle at his feet.

“What did you expect?” hissed Hawke. “Champion of Kirkwall I may be, but I am still a man, Fenris, and I still have my pride! Did you think I would stand back and watch you cuckold me?”

“No,” replied Fenris, shaking his head. “But....”

Hawke looked back over his shoulder, pausing in the act of taking another drink. “But?”

The elf turned miserable eyes up to his. “I cannot help how I feel,” he said simply.

“Which is?” demanded the man, scowling.

“I... love him,” admitted the elf sadly.

Hawke stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “And that is supposed to make everything better, is it? 'Sorry I just wrecked everything, Hawke, but I love your boyfriend which makes it all right!' Is that it?”

Fenris shook his head in irritation. “No, of course it – I mean – Venhedis, Hawke!” He pushed himself back to his feet and glared at the man. “I love him. I didn't ask for this. I never wanted this. But the man got under my skin until I could think of nothing else. I watched him slowly dying in front of my eyes, and I could do nothing – and he voiced _not one word of blame!_ ”

“Why should he?” asked Hawke, blinking in confusion.

“Did he not tell you how he came to be injured?” asked Fenris, raising an eyebrow.

Hawke shook his head. “He said you found him fighting darkspawn and you helped finish them off. I assumed one of them....”

Fenris shook his head. “I did it,” he admitted. “It was my fault.”

“You?” exclaimed Hawke incredulously. “But then, why-”

“It was a mistake,” said Fenris quietly. “I pushed him, he fell and landed upon a spear point embedded in the ground. Not once did he blame me.” He glanced away into the empty fireplace. “He often said to me that he would prove he was not weak.” He glanced back at Hawke, and there was a look of admiration in his eyes. “Anders may be many things, but he is not weak, Hawke. I have seen warriors die from lesser wounds.”

“Go on,” said Hawke quietly.

Fenris shrugged. “It is said there is a fine line between hate and love. I did not understand, until I crossed that line myself,” he said thoughtfully. He glanced back over his shoulder at Hawke. “Understand, I still do not trust all mages... but this one mage, I would give my life for.” He stared back at the ashes. “Though, perhaps you should not tell him I said so.” He smiled, ruefully.

Hawke stared at Fenris thoughtfully, taking another pull of his wine. “So... you love him.”

Fenris nodded. “I do,” he replied simply.

“So now what?” asked Hawke. “Do you expect me to step aside, wave you to him, tell you to take your fill?”

Fenris turned and regarded Hawke quizzically. “Anders is not a slave, to be treated as your property, Hawke,” he said quietly. “He is a free man, with his own will.”

“When Justice allows,” grimaced Hawke. A shadow fell across Fenris' face, and he glanced away.

“I would free him of his demon, if I could,” he remarked softly, slowly clenching a fist.

“If he allowed you to,” replied Hawke.

“Indeed,” replied Fenris. “I... do not understand why any man would willingly enslave themselves to a demon, but... I am not a mage.”

“Yet you would love one,” pointed out Hawke.

“So would you,” replied Fenris.

“Point,” conceded Hawke. “But then, I'm not the one with a hate-on for all mages.”

“Not all mages,” replied Fenris. He took another drink of his wine, then turned the bottle upside down and watched the last few dregs spill onto the ashes to mingle with the wine splashed there earlier. He turned and reached for another bottle. “So... what now?” he asked, turning to Hawke.

Hawke sipped slowly, and shook his head. “Maker, I don't know,” he sighed. Then he laughed ruefully. “I know what Isabela would say I should do.”

“I am not Isabela,” replied Fenris darkly.

“Nor am I,” answered Hawke quietly. “The thought of sharing Anders....” He stared at the bottle and shook his head. “I'm not sure I could do that.”

Fenris leaned against the mantelpiece, staring down at the bottle in his hands. “I... have never loved before,” he said quietly.

“What, never?” Hawke blinked in surprise.

“Never,” nodded Fenris. He did not raise his eyes from the bottle. Hawke groaned.

“Maker, I....” He fell silent, nursing his bottle thoughtfully. After a while, he turned and stared at Fenris. He pointed the bottle neck at the elf.

“One night.”

Fenris glanced up. “What?” he asked, confusion showing in his eyes.

“I'll give you one night with him. Does that sound fair?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You're drunk,” he said flatly. “Why would you do that?”

“To give you the chance to find out if what you feel is real. To find out if he feels the same way about you. To... hell, I don't know, even the field a bit, maybe.” He squinted at the empty bottle in his hand. “Maybe you're right – maybe I am drunk.” He reached for another bottle. “What do you say?”

“I'd say you should give me that bottle,” replied Anders quietly, stepping out of the dark semi-gloom and reaching for the bottle. “Because after hearing all that, Maker knows now I do need a drink.” He glanced at the startled warrior and smiled. “Did you really think I would sleep through your shouting?” He glanced down at the bottle in his hand. “Huh. Orlesian spiced red. Interesting choice.” He broke the wax seal and sniffed the cork. “Cheeky little number. A bit like me, really.” He picked up Hawke's knife and began to uncork the bottle. Handing the knife back to Hawke, he smiled, a little too brightly, something brittle about his eyes. “Bottoms up!” he added, and took a long pull from the bottle.

He lowered the bottle and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “So, were you going to give me a say in all this, or were you just going to hand me over and bid me _Bon Nuit?_ ” he asked Hawke, still smiling brittlely. He turned to Fenris and raised the bottle in a mock toast. “How would you like me? Trussed up with a ribbon? I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? Kinky lot, Tevinters.”

He took another swallow, letting the blanket fall to the floor, and stood there naked.

“Here I am, gentlemen. Do with me as you wish.”

“Anders, love-” began Hawke stepping towards him, but Anders raised his hand.

“No, no, I insist,” he replied. “Why not? You said it yourself; I'm yours. You can do what you like with your property. So here I am.” He turned to Fenris as he took another long swallow; lowering the bottle, he took a step towards the elf, who stared at him horrified.

“How about it, love?” he said, his words slurring slightly. He paused and stared at the bottle. “Hmm. Stronger than I remembered,” he mused. “But that's OK. I don't think I want to be sober right now anyway.”

“Stop,” whispered Fenris. “Stop this.”

“What's wrong, love?” asked Anders, taking another step towards him. “Didn't you say you wanted me? Here I am.”

“Not like this,” replied the elf, shaking his head. Anders smiled at him, his eyes hardening.

“But why not, love?” he asked. “Look at me. I'm still Anders. I'm still _me._ ”

“You're drunk,” replied the elf flatly.

“Not enough by half,” replied the mage quietly.

“Anders....” growled Hawke. Anders took another half-step towards the elf, then glanced back over his shoulder.

“This was your idea,” he said quietly. “Let's just give Anders to the elf for one night. Screw what he may think or feel about the whole bloody mess.” He turned and stared at the wine-stained fireplace and took another long pull from his bottle. “You must have mistaken me for Isabela,” he mused softly, and stared at the bottle in his hand. “I'm not drunk enough for this.”

He lifted the bottle to his lips and closed his eyes. The only sound was that of quiet breathing and that of soft liquid gulping; Fenris could not tear his eyes away from the sight of Anders' throat as it worked at swallowing the rich, heady spiced wine, adam's apple bobbing steadily.

Maker, but he was beautiful; there was no denying it. Slender, wanton, his head thrown back, eyes closed, blond hair tumbling back across his shoulders, the flicker of candlelight bathing his body in a soft golden glow, shadows playing across the toned flesh. Fenris felt a stirring warmth in his groin as he stood there, transfixed, unable to tear his eyes away as Anders lowered the bottle then let it fall from his fingers to smash upon the hearthstone, uncaring of the flying shards of glass which drew blood from his bare legs and feet. He lifted his hands and braced his arms against the mantelpiece, head still thrown back; and then he lowered his head as he spread his legs.

“Go on then.” he slurred drunkenly. “Fuck me like the whore I am. I don't care any more.”


	10. Chapter 10

There was a stunned silence, broken only by an incoherent sound of denial from Hawke as he took a step towards Anders.

“Don't say that! Don't hurt yourself like that!” he pleaded.

“You are not a whore,” said Fenris quietly.

Anders stared at the ashes, his body faintly trembling. “Yes I am,” he said flatly. “Whore. Abomination. _Thing,_ ” he spat over his shoulder at Hawke, who flinched. Anders' face contorted into an expression of grief. “Did you think I didn't _know?_ That I couldn't _hear?_ ”

“Love, I didn't mean-”

“It doesn't matter what you meant,” replied Anders, shaking his head and turning away. “Nothing matters anymore. Whether you meant it or not, it was in your thoughts, in your mind. It's what I am, after all. An abomination. A monster.” He laughed bitterly. “Oh Maker, I am the biggest fool of all.”

“No, you are not,” replied Fenris quietly, taking a step towards him. Anders turned his head and glared at him.

“You've seen what I am,” he said quietly. “You've seen what I can do.” He turned back to the fireplace and closed his eyes. “Do it,” he said quietly. “It's what I deserve.” He bowed his head, leaning into the mantelpiece, his body shivering.

“No!” cried Hawke, unable to hold himself back. He reached out for Anders' shoulder and spun the slender man around.

“Don't touch me!” Anders screamed, staggering off balance then stumbling backwards into the fireplace, his feet leaving bloody footprints as he stepped drunkenly through the broken glass. “Keep your hands off me! I'm not your bloody slave, your toy to just cast aside like that!”

“Love-”

“You keep saying that word as though it had meaning any more,” moaned Anders. He clutched his stomach suddenly with a groan and doubled over. “I feel sick.” He stared despairingly at the elf. “Say something,” he begged.

“What do you want me to say?” asked Fenris quietly.

“I don't know,” moaned Anders, bowing his head as he fell back against the firestone and slowly slid down against it. “Anything. My head's spinning. I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Let's get you outside,” said Fenris, reaching down and hauling Anders up by the wrist. He draped the mage's arm across his shoulder, his other arm slipping around the bare waist as he half-walked, half-carried the drunken man towards the balcony doors. Hawke followed behind, picking up the grey blanket as he brought up the rear.

Anders staggered into the cool night air on the balcony. Throwing himself against the stone balustrade, he moaned before noisily spewing the meagre contents of his stomach down into the square below. Fenris supported him with his arm still around Anders' waist, awkwardly patting the mage's shoulder in what he hoped felt like a comforting fashion. Hawke stepped up to the rail on Anders' other side and gently held the blond hair back as Anders coughed and retched. He hung over the cold stone railing, his stomach spasming emptily, then turned and slid down against it, moaning piteously.

Fenris crouched down beside him and gently pushed a lock of blond hair out of the amber eyes, which glimmered dimly with tears.

“What am I to do with you,” he mused fondly. Anders raised his eyes and stared at the elf.

“Anything you like,” he said dully.

Fenris gently cupped the distraught man's cheek with his hand. “Not like this,” he said quietly. “I would have you come to me of your own free will.”

Anders stared at him, eyes dark. “Did you mean what you said?” he whispered. “About me? Being a mage you could die for?”

“Yes,” replied the elf simply.

Anders turned so he was kneeling in front of the elf; he shivered in the cold night air as he reached a trembling hand to pluck at the front of Fenris' tunic. “Please tell me,” he begged brokenly. “What am I?”

Fenris laid his hand over the trembling fingers, holding them to his heart. “You are Anders,” he replied simply. “Mage, abomination, it is true – but still a man.” He smiled sadly. “A cold, broken, drunken man who will catch his death of cold soon, but still a man.”

“Could you truly love a man like me?” breathed Anders, shivering.

“I do,” replied Fenris.

“Then take me,” Anders whispered brokenly. “I'll give myself to you. Here, now, whatever you want to do to me.”

Hawke stifled a moan, dropping the blanket as he stumbled away, back inside.

Fenris should his head. “No. You are tired, drunk and hurt,” he replied, picking up the blanket and wrapping it warmly around Anders. He rose to his feet then stooped and swept the mage lightly up into his arms.

“I don't understand,” murmured Anders. “You...don't want me?”

“Not tonight,” replied the elf as he carefully carried Anders inside. “Not like this. Tomorrow, when you are rested, sober and yourself again – if you still want to, then....”

Anders rested his head on Fenris' shoulder as the elf carried him across to the bed. “So tired,” he murmured. Fenris gently laid him down upon the bed.

“Rest,” he said gently. I shall tend your feet.”

Anders lay back against the pillows with a faint sigh. He closed his eyes as Fenris reached for the backpack Lirene had brought, and pulled out a healing kit. Hawke had slumped into a chair by the empty fireplace and was staring into it silently, his shoulders shaking. Fenris fetched a bowl of water and cloths and set to work quietly washing the blood from Anders' feet before gently pulling out slivers of dark glass. Anders made no protest beyond an occasional whimper or faint gasp. Finally the task was done, and Fenris started to carefully wind clean white bandages around the pale slender feet. Anders turned his face into the pillows and closed his eyes.

“Fenris?” he asked drowsily.

“Hmm?” answered the elf, not looking up from his task.

“Does it glow?”

Fenris looked up, startled. “I'm sorry?” he asked, perplexed.

His only answer was a faint snore.


	11. Chapter 11

Anders slept soundly as Fenris finished bandaging his lacerated feet. It seemed the mage was determined to give him much practice at treating his wounds. He wound up the left-over bandages and carefully stored them away again for later use. He paused as his hands brushed something – a small pillow made of soft white linen, carefully embroidered with small neat stitches in fading silks in a pattern of flowers he didn't recognise; they were like nothing he had ever seen in the Imperium. He pulled it from the pack and turned it over in his hands; it seemed a somehow incongruous object to find in the mage's backpack. He turned it back over, and plucked a single golden hair from it.

He bent his head and cautiously sniffed it. It smelled of the mage himself – herbs and musk, a faint tang of lyrium, and something else. Something that reminded him of fresh, new-mown hay on a summer's day.

He glanced over at the sleeping mage, and leaning over him he carefully slid a hand beneath the golden hair, lifting Anders' head just enough to slide the pillow beneath his cheek before lowering it again. Tenderly he stroked his fingers lightly down the mage's cheek.

Anders sighed, turning his face a little into the pillow. “Mother?” he murmured quietly. “I had that dream again, Mother... don't let them take me....”

Fenris slid a hand into the soft silky hair and pressed his lips to the pale forehead. “Hush. No-one will take you. You are safe now,” he whispered. Anders sighed, then stilled as he slipped deeper into sleep.

“His mother made it,” remarked Hawke quietly from his seat by the dead fire; his voice was slightly muffled, breath hitching a little. “It's the only thing he has of her. The templars came for him when he was 12.”

“I did not know,” Fenris replied, smoothing the grey Warden blanket over Anders' supine form. “I do not remember my mother.”

“Maybe you're lucky, elf,” replied Hawke morosely. “No-one to miss.”

“Or be missed by,” replied Fenris.

“Apart from him,” replied Hawke, waving his bottle without turning. “Congratulations. You've won. He's yours.”

Fenris rose from the bed and walked back towards the fireplace. “He is not a prize to be fought over,” he said coolly.

“But you won him all the same,” replied Hawke belligerently.

Fenris plucked the last remaining bottle of wine from the empty ones stood around it. Peeling the wax from the seal with his thumb, he tugged the cork out with his teeth and spat it out into the fireplace. “I thought it was magic that destroyed all it touched, Hawke,” he said quietly. “It seems you have found a new magic all your own, using only your tongue.” He saluted the warrior with his bottle then took a long drink.

“What is that supposed to mean?” snarled Hawke.

Fenris gestured at the bed. “Go see for yourself,” he suggested. “Take a good look at him.”

Hawke hauled himself to his feet, frowning at the elf, cradling his bottle to his chest. With a suspicious glance back at Fenris, he made his way over to the foot of the bed, and stood there, staring at Anders, drinking in silence as he studied the sleeping man.

Anders had pushed down the blanket, restlessly; fading bruises still mottled his too-prominent ribs. Hawke scowled, taking another pull from the bottle as he stared. There were dark circles beneath the sleeping eyes, pale lashes resting against bruised flesh that had not seen enough rest in – when? Days? Weeks? Months? The hair was longer, untidy; bereft of its usual cord to restrain it, it lay scattered over the embroidered pillow. His jaw was shaded with stubble; he couldn't remember when last he'd seen Anders clean-shaven. Even in sleep, a faint line creased the mage's brow. One hand rested atop his breast, faint burn scars marking the fingers from too many fire spells and careless, sleepless nights spent stirring potions as they cooked. That drakenstone could be difficult and unpredictable to handle when heated.

His other hand lay palm uppermost beside his head, fingers curled slightly in upon themselves. A fading scar ran up the inside of his arm – a memento of one of their more recent clashes with raiders near the Wounded Coast. His eyes roved over the unconscious man's body, tallying all the scars and blemishes – some old and almost as familiar to Hawke as his own, others more recent.

Downing more of the wine, Hawke reached out for the blanket; Fenris made a faint disapproving sound, but did not move, watching him from the shadows. Hawke drew the blanket slowly down, studying Anders' sleeping body with hungry eyes. He leaned forward to kneel upon the bed, spanning a hand over the healing scar a little to the left of his navel, a hand-span beneath his ribs. The flesh was still new and pink, the edges puckered, though the wound no longer troubled Anders. The pale skin was warm beneath his touch as he gently pressed down, sliding his hand lower towards the mage's groin.

Anders tossed his head restlessly upon the pillow and a faint sigh slipped from his lips. “No, please...” he slurred drowsily, the hand upon the pillow twitching as the other slid unconsciously to cradle his throat. Hawke felt the breath catch in his throat as he leaned closer, setting aside the empty bottle and resting both hands upon Anders' thighs.

The sleeping man frowned and whimpered quietly, a soft sound of distress. “Please... don't... don't hurt me again,” he moaned.

Hawke snatched back his hands as though they suddenly burned, recoiling.

Anders rolled slowly over onto his side, curling his arms about his slender body as he hunched in upon himself with a low moan. Hawke gently pulled the blanket back up over the sleeping man.

“I'm sorry, love,” he said huskily. He gently threaded his hands into the blond hair, but froze as Anders flinched in his sleep.

Angrily Hawke glared at the shadowy form of the elf; all he could see were faint lyrium lines glowing silver in the dark, reflecting in dark green eyes that glittered like the cold glass shattered in the hearth.

“ _I_ did this?” he hissed.

“You have done nothing to ease him,” replied Fenris coldly.

“I did not rape him!” growled the warrior.

“You made of him an object,” replied Fenris. “When he needed your love, you made of him a slave.”

“I love him!”

“You would own him.”

Hawke stared down at Anders, pale and vulnerable in sleep.

“I wanted to keep him safe,” whispered Hawke.

“You wanted to _keep_ him,” replied Fenris. “Not all slaves wear the magister's collar, Hawke.” He smiled sadly, tilting the bottle towards Hawke in mocking salute before quietly drinking.

“What do I do?” whispered Hawke helplessly. Fenris regarded him coldly.

“Let him go,” he replied. “Let him fly where he will. Give him a safe nest to rest in should he choose... but leave the door to your gilded cage open. Or you will destroy what you love.”

Hawke stared down at Anders hopelessly. “I _love_ him,” he repeated despairingly. Fenris was silent. Slowly Hawke drew back from the bed, stumbling slowly backwards. “I should go,” he said quietly.

“It is late. You are drunk,” replied Fenris. He gestured to the chair. “Sit. Sleep. Don't be more of a fool than you already are. Think what it would do to him if you were to come to harm out there.” He gestured towards the windows briefly.

“You don't care about me at all,” Hawke huffed. “You only care about him.”

“That's not true,” replied Fenris calmly. “You're drunk. Go to sleep.” He picked up a blanket and threw it at the man. Hawke gaped at him as the elf set the half-drunk bottle of wine back upon the table, walking over towards the bed. He pulled a spare blanket from the end of the bed and settled back in a low chair next to the bed, pulling the blanket over himself as he curled up. “Go to sleep, Hawke,” he repeated quietly, voice muffled by the woollen fabric.

Hawke slowly stumbled back over to his chair and slumped down into the seat, pulling his own blanket over himself. He stared into the empty fireplace for a long time. Despite the wine he'd drunk, sleep was long in coming that night. He fell asleep, still brooding on a pair of amber eyes that regarded him with a world of hurt.

 _“Whore. Abomination. Thing. Did you think I didn't know? It was in your thoughts, in your mind. It's what I am after all. An abomination. A monster.” ___

Anders' despairing cry haunted him into his dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

Waking was painful.

He drifted slowly towards consciousness, aware of his guts twisting queasily whilst his head pounded in time with the beat of his heart. Even beneath the soft grey blanket, the sunlight streaming in through the windows was unbearably bright. He hesitantly opened one eye and instantly regretted it as pain stabbed like a blazing white-hot sword right through his eye and through his head. He clutched his head and moaned piteously.

“So the mage finally wakes.” The voice echoed over-loud in his sensitive head, ringing in his ears. He thought he detected a note of amusement in the elf's husky voice.

“Oh Maker, I'm dying,” he groaned.

The elf chuckled, the bastard. “So much for the fabled Grey Warden stamina,” Fenris teased. “You had one bottle of wine, Anders.”

“Poisoned,” murmured Anders feebly. “I warned you about strange blue bottles, elf.”

“It was spiced Orlesian red, mage,” replied the elf affably. “You said so yourself.”

“Did I?” mused Anders, risking a second peek over the top of the grey blanket. He grimaced at the buzzing sound that seemed to fill the room and his head.

“Andraste's knickers, who's sawing wood at this hour of the morning?” he complained, grimacing.

Fenris gave a wry chuckle. “No-one,” he replied. “That's Hawke snoring.”

Anders tensed warily. “He's still here?”

“Why wouldn't he be?” asked Fenris reasonably. “My invitation to stay was addressed to you both, and he had far more to drink than you.” He glanced over at the empty bottled scattered beside Hawke's chair. “At least three bottles, by my count,” he added dryly.

“Maker, if I feel this bad after one bottle, I dread to think what he'll be like after three,” Anders winced. He decided to try sitting up. It wasn't so bad, he reflected, once the room had stopped spinning. He put both hands to his head and frowned; his head was too fuzzy to string two thoughts together coherantly enough to try healing himself yet. He sighed ruefully.

“You'd never believe I used to drink dwarves under the table back in my Warden days, would you?” he mused, scratching at his stubbled chin.

“No, I wouldn't,” agreed Fenris. Anders scowled at him.

“You're _enjoying_ my pain, aren't you, you bastard?” he moaned.

“Only the self-inflicted part,” admitted Fenris quietly.

“I think this is all self-inflicted,” grumbled Anders as he turned and slid his legs down to the ground. “One way or another. It usually is. I have this wonderful knack for-” He paused and his face coloured. In a slightly different tone of voice, he continued, “I, er, appear not to be wearing any smallclothes.” He glanced up at the elf. “Did I, er... I mean to say, did anything....”

“Happen last night?” finished the elf quietly. Anders nodded, a worried look in his eyes. “No. Were you hoping it would?”

Anders stared at Fenris, parts of the conversation last night slowly returning to him as the colour slowly drained from his face, to be replaced by a queasy, greenish cast to his pallor.

“Did either of you... when I....” He glanced over to the fireplace. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the floor, then looked up with a false, overly-bright smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes, which looked brittle and vulnerable. “So, was I good?” He asked. “Did you both do me at the same time, or did you take turns?”

“You... don't remember?” asked Fenris quietly.

Anders smiled at him with the air of desperation. He didn't want to remember.

Fenris regarded him sombrely. “It doesn't glow.”

Anders blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“My cock. You asked if it glows. Or at least, I presume that's what you were asking. You fell asleep soon afterwards.”

“You're teasing me.” Anders' voice was curiously flat.

A corner of Fenris' mouth quirked briefly in a small half-smile. “Possibly,” he allowed. “Relax, mage. Despite your wanton exhibition last night, your... virtue-” his lip quirked again, “remains unsullied.”

Anders watched him uncertainly, his fingers unconsciously bunching and twisting the edge of the blanket, betraying his inner agitation. Fenris felt a brief irritation rise inside as he tapped a finger against the arm of his chair, the spiked metal tips of gauntlets gouging little divots out of the wood.

“I told you, mage – nothing happened,” he repeated testily.

Anders swallowed nervously. “I made an idiot of myself, didn't I?” he said quietly. Naked, his nudity veiled only by a fold of grey woollen cloth, he appeared younger, more fragile. Perhaps it was the uncertain look in his eyes as his gaze darted around the room. His gaze dropped to his bandaged feet where they peeked out beneath the blanket. “Ah. So I didn't dream that bit,” he murmured.

Fenris briefly considered describing the mage's behaviour of the evening before to him, but dismissed the idea immediately. It would serve little purpose beyond distressing the mage again. Anders' glance was being drawn repeatedly back towards the fireplace; Fenris wondered darkly just how much he remembered of the conversation of the previous evening.

Anders tore his glance away from the empty fireplace and turned it instead to hunting around on and beside the bed, searching for his clothing. Fenris rose to his feet and wordlessly fetched it for him, laying it down on the foot of the bed before picking up a bucket beside a wash stand and disappearing downstairs. Anders gratefully took the chance to dress himself in shirt and pants. He was just tying the laces on his pants when the elf returned, wordlessly pouring water into the wash basin before setting the bucket down and silently padding over to the balcony doors. Walking cautiously on painful feet, Anders made his way to the wash basin and splashed cold water on his face, gasping a little at the chill. He washed his face and hands, then smoothed back his hair, hunting briefly for the cord he usually tied it with. Giving it up as a bad job, he sighed then hunted through his backpack, settling for a strip torn off the edge of a bandage. He tied his hair back, then pressed his hands to his rebellious stomach, channelling a little healing magic to ease and settle it then pressing his fingertips to his temples he closed his eyes and sighed as the glowing blue of healing magic settled into his skull, relieving the pounding and bringing back a reassuring clarity to his thoughts.

As Fenris walked back in from the balcony, he felt the brief surge of magic as an answering surge flowing through the lyrium lines across his body. He breathed in sharply, then froze as he caught sight of the mage's face.

As his thoughts became clear, the memories had come flooding back; Anders stiffened, his expression growing pained as he slowly opened soft brown eyes that were dark with remembered hurt. His hands fell slowly away from his head as he turned and stared back at the fireplace. Slowly, stumbling a little, he made his way over to the fireplace, unheeding of Hawke sprawled snoring in a battered chair behind him, still cradling an empty wine bottle. Anders stared down at the stains on the hearth; spilled wine mingled with dried blood splashed over shards of splintered glass. His eyes traced his own bloodied footprints through the ash. Slowly he lifted his hands to the mantelpiece, bracing his hands against the cold stone as he lowered his head.

“Don't,” said Fenris quietly, his throat suddenly tight. Anders looked over his shoulder at the elf, a sad smile on his face.

“Will you still say no?” he asked quietly. Fenris walked quietly to his side.

“That depends,” he replied quietly, lifting a gauntleted hand to the pale face. Anders blanched a little but did not pull away as the steel claws gently cradled his cheek; a distant part of his mind wondered when the elf had donned his armour once more, and what that foretold of his immediate likely fate. “On whether you are going to refer to yourself as a whore.”

Anders closed his eyes and shivered a little as a clawed thumb brushed across his lips; he opened his mouth and turned, drawing a steel talon into his mouth, tasting old blood and cold iron, and something more... the nearness of lyrium like a heady scent. Fenris drew his finger from the mage's mouth and reached up to clasp the blond head in his clawed hands. Anders closed his eyes and shuddered, then slowly dropped to his knees. His breath caught in his throat as his heart fluttered, beating too fast.

“Anders. Look at me.”

Slowly the amber eyes flickered open, lifting their gaze obediently to the elf's face.

“Would you truly give yourself to me? Like this?”

Anders slowly nodded, the elf's hands still pressed firmly against his skull. He could feel the little claw tips against his skin; present yet not drawing blood.

Fenris cast a glance sideways at the sleeping Hawke, then back down at the mage.

“Not here. Come with me.” He reached down and took hold of the mage's unresisting wrist; Anders silently rose to his feet and followed as the elf led him from the room.

He had no idea what would happen next. All he knew was that he stood on the cusp of something; change was in the air, and whatever happened, life could never be the same again.

Feeling as though his feet were on the deck of a rolling boat in the middle of a tempestuous sea, Anders followed the elf, blindly trusting him.

He had nothing left but fragile trust.


	13. Chapter 13

He let himself be drawn, the gauntleted grasp about his wrist firm and yet somehow gentle, those wickedly-sharp claws resting easily against the delicate skin over his veins. He ought to be afraid. Maker knows, should Fenris suddenly decide this was all a horrible mistake – should he suddenly take into his head the irrational thought that Anders had somehow bewitched him – then he knew all the magic in the world wouldn't be enough to stop those terrible claws ripping him apart before the elf tore his still-beating heart from his chest.

Not even Justice.

Justice.... He could feel the spirit there, feel his will overlapping his own, and not for the first time he wondered at the spirit's strange silence over this turn of events. He remembered the spirit's rancour and distaste, that first night he had come to Hawke. He had willingly deafened himself to the spirit's chastisement that Hawke was a distraction they could ill afford; he had _needed_ that night, and the nights that were to follow. He had had many lovers over the years; he had used his own body and willingly allowed it to be used in turn for many brief trysts, hurried fumblings in the dark, but nothing lasting, nothing more than skin-deep or the templars would have used it to destroy them – both he and his willing lovers. Nothing lasting, until Hawke; until he pushed aside the last of those rules that had become second nature for simple, pure survival and learned that there could be gentle slowness in lovemaking; tender embraces, nights spent curled in one another's arms.

Tender mornings waking slowly, unhurried, to gaze into one another's eyes with no fears of a templar to descend in wrath and fury, a holy smite to lay him low, a steel gauntlet to break his skin with a cruel blow. No fears of a cold lonely cell where he had come to count the passing of days and nights by meals and rough hands upon his body. A new existence, where whether he lived or died became secondary to the terrible fear of losing one whom he loved more than life itself.

He hadn't been able to imagine that dying within him without the physical death of Hawke himself; and yet, it had been Hawke himself who had slowly been killing it by degrees. A jealous stare, a too-tight grip upon his hand, a needy thrusting that ignored his own discomfort, using his body to salve a wound neither of them had ever realised was there until it was too late and a pair of cool green eyes had started to vie with the fierce blue in his dreams.

And Justice had not protested it, even as Anders had turned his disquiet and guilt inwards. It was he who had held Hawke at a distance. He had told himself it was for Hawke's protection. What he didn't know could never be held against him; and Anders himself had told Hawke he would bring him only ruin and heartache. He had never dreamed the heart that would slowly break would be his own.

And there was no comfort in Justice.

He reached within, questioning the spirit's silence as he allowed the elf to lead him past the desiccating corpses in the great hall, and was perturbed to realise the spirit was actually welcoming of this turn of events – Justice was positively humming with pleasure at the proximity of so much lyrium. He finally understood why his feet strode so surely behind the elf, despite the pain in his feet which he ignored. Justice wanted this. Justice wanted the elf. And even if Anders had any doubts – if he had wondered, perhaps wanted to draw back – he realised the spirit likely would not have let him.

Was this, then, how spirits became demons?

 _Oh Maker_ , he tried to moan, but all that would come forth was a faint breath, not quite a sigh.

Fenris had sharp ears, and caught the sound however as he led the unresisting mage through a hallway. He paused and glanced back questioningly at the mage. Anders was helpless to answer the question in his eyes however. After a moment, the elf led him on again.

No. Justice, no. Please. Don't do this.

He caught a sense of needy want emanating from the spirit. He closed his eyes, trusting the elf to lead him blindly.

Justice. How is this any better than what the templar did to me? To _us?_

 _Fenris is no templar._

“Let me go,” he whispered, as his feet stumbled over a doorstep and he felt fresh air upon his face. He felt Fenris pause.

“Anders?” The elf's voice was low, cautious. Anders shook his head, unable to explain.

 _You want him too. You want this._

“Don't. Please. Not you too, oh Maker,” Anders breathed.

The hand released his wrist. “Anders. We do not have to do this.”

 _You need this. You need him more than Hawke. The elf is a far more worthy ally._

“That's not why I did this!” hissed Anders, clenching his fists, eyes still closed. “How can you not understand? After all these years-”

 _Remember how it felt when he kissed us._ He could feel the desire for the lyrium burning through the spirit's words.

“No!” he moaned. “I won't be used like this – I won't let _him_ be used like this!”

“Anders, what-” Fenris gently took hold of Anders' shoulders as the mage put a hand to his head.

“Please, stop, _stop!_ ” begged Anders, his eyes flying open as he reached out for the elf. “Make him stop!”

Understanding suddenly dawned in the elf's eyes.

He had paused when Anders had made some odd, faint sound in the back of his throat, glancing back curiously. But Anders had said nothing, so he had continued to draw the mage on after him as he guided Anders towards the garden. It was quiet and peaceful there, the air fresh and cool, the garden secluded. It was also wild and overgrown after so many years of neglect, but somehow Fenris doubted Anders would particularly care about his indifference towards gardening.

He felt Anders hesitate as they stepped over the threshold onto the small patio outside what must have been one of the many reception rooms the old mansion contained. Once, it would have been neat, pristine and white, but the years and elements had stained it with a riot of lichens, and various weeds had thrust their inevitable way between the paving slabs to creep steadily across the old stones.

“Let me go,” the mage whispered. Fenris glanced back at him; Anders' eyes were closed, a haunted look upon the drawn features. He'd had second thoughts. He wasn't ready for this. Fenris paused.

“Anders?” he asked softly, questioningly. The mage shook his head, a look of distress stealing over his face. Fenris let the slender wrist go as the mage breathed brokenly, “Don't. Please. Not you too, oh Maker.”

 _Venhedis._ He would not do this to him. The stirring in his groin could wait. “Anders. We do not have to do this.”

Anders shook his head, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “That's not why I did this!” he hissed. “How can you not understand? After all these years-” He suddenly fell silent and clutched his head with one hand, and suddenly Fenris understood. Anders was fighting an internal battle; his pleas were not for the elf's ears. He moaned, and muttered something about not letting himself or _him_ be used.

 _Him?_ Fenris reached gently for the mage's shoulders. “Anders, what-” he began. Anders' eyes flew open wide as he clutched at the elf. “Make him stop!” he begged.

Fenris growled. “Justice.”

Anders stiffened, and suddenly the frightened brown gaze was replaced by fierce, determined, alien white-blue fire as the human's fingers tightened upon Fenris' arms, skin touching skin where the leather armour did not cover. Fenris hissed as the lyrium instantly responded, fire in his skin – the old, familiar pain ripping through flesh.

“What do you want, demon?” he growled.

 _“You.”_ Fenris' eyes widened at the tone of unmistakable lust in that hollow voice, then narrowed.

“And you would inflict this upon him? After all he has been through?”

The spirit regarded him hungrily. _“You desire this body,”_ it declared, drawing him closer. _“You wish to couple with it. He has offered it to you. The arrangement is... pleasing to me.”_

Fenris shook his head. “No. I want _him_ , not some demon!”

 _“I am no demon!”_ growled Justice, its grip inhumanly strong upon the elf's arms. The lyrium sang deliriously loud in his head, starting to crowd out coherent thought. Fenris fought it down with an inhuman snarl of rage.

“Get. Out.”

In answer, Justice crushed him to its chest, the lips – Anders' lips – hungrily claiming his mouth, the soft tongue somehow hard and insistent as it darted out to taste him. The lyrium flared white-hot and Fenris felt himself phasing into that Fade-space that always felt so alien and yet so natural to him in his unnatural state.

He reacted from pure instinctive rage. The spirit wanted lyrium? Let it taste it.

Thrusting Anders' slender yet impossibly strong body back, Fenris raked a clawed hand through the fragile flesh until his questing fingers found the mage's heart, and then he poured the full blast of his powers into Anders' body.

The scream that erupted from Anders' lips as he threw back his head was pure agony and utterly inhuman. Nothing mortal could have made the cry that ripped free from the mage's throat. Fenris had to trust that in claiming possession of Anders' body, the demon had mercifully thrown Anders' mind into unconsciousness. He desperately hoped Anders could not feel this.

The scream echoed around the stone-walled garden, and Fenris fervently prayed to whatever gods might be looking down upon him that no-one might be passing who might grow curious at the unearthly keen that rang deafeningly in his ears. He tightened his grip about the fluttering heart.

He could kill the man. It would be so easy. And it would be an act of mercy; one he knew that Hawke would never have been capable of carrying out. Justice was no benign spirit but a demon who had allowed its own lusts to carry it down this damnable path, dragging the unfortunate mage with him. Merrill had been right; there were no good spirits, and Anders had never learned this until now, when it was too late to turn back from this path born of desperation. He was an abomination, through and through. It would be nothing but an act of pure mercy to put an end to his life, so that the demon could never abuse him like this again.

He had not expected this to hurt so much. This was needed. He would be giving Anders the final rest he deserved; a peace where none would ever violate him again.

And yet... something caused him to freeze. If he did this... there would be no turning back. Anders would die. The demon would die with him, but would that be scant consolation when he was left to cradle an empty, broken body afterwards? He would have to watch the light die in those amber-brown eyes.

Just as he had with the girl. The girl with Anders' eyes.

She had been different. She had been made into a Tranquil slave; she had begged for release with her own voice, and in a moment of pure understanding he had granted her that release. It had been an act of pure mercy. He knew that and did not regret it.

But he had not loved her. He loved Anders.

And he did not want Anders to die. He had lost so much; his life, his freedom, freedom from pain, his family, everything he had known. He had so little now; a restless freedom that was little more than a marking of time before the shadow of Tevinter fell across him once more. What did he have, truly? The clothes he stood up in. A small handful of friends.

And a man he loved dearly. A man he had said he would die for.

A man he did not wish to die, least of all by his own hands.

The spirit was silent; the screams had died. Drawing the rest of his body back out of the Fade but keeping his hand buried to the wrist within the slender body, Fenris roughly took hold of Anders' shoulder and shook it, unheeding of the blood his claws drew through the thin linen shirt. Anders' head fell forward, mouth agape in wordless agony.

“Anders.”

The amber eyes flickered open, lost in a world of pain. No trace of spirit blue remained in those pain-darkened depths. Fenris slipped his hand free from the stuttering heart, and Anders' knees buckled. He fell forward into the elf's arms, and Fenris embraced him, holding close. His face felt unaccountably wet, and he realised with dull amazement that he was crying.

“Te imploro, da mihi veniam,” he breathed, cradling the semi-conscious mage to his breast. He stripped the gauntlet from his right hand with his teeth then tenderly brushed his bare fingers through the soft golden hair and traced his thumb down the white cheek. “Please, I beg you, forgive me, beloved.”

Anders opened his eyes slowly, and his hands falteringly lifted to drape around the elf's neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“I almost killed you,” breathed Fenris, his voice catching in his throat. “I could not live with myself were I to-”

“Hush,” said Anders softly, trying to smile. “I love you.” He blinked. “What did you call me?”

“Beloved,” said Fenris quietly, a faint blush steeling across his cheeks. Anders buried his face against the elf's throat. “Beloved,” he said quietly. “No-one's ever called me that before.”

“I will call you that many, many times,” promised the elf.

“Kiss me,” breathed the man softly.

Gently, the elf placed two fingers beneath Anders' chin and tilted his face up as he lowered his lips to kiss him. Anders' lips parted and he moaned softly, surrendering willingly to the elf as he pressed himself against the armoured body. He dropped one hand to press it lightly against Fenris' chestplate, sliding it down the smooth surface until his hand cupped against the elf's groin, and Fenris growled approvingly as he felt himself stir in response.

Fenris pulled himself away from the soft full lips to search Anders' eyes, which were lazily half-lidded in pleasure.

“Do you still want this?” he pressed gently. “We can stop-”

“Maker, I want you,” breathed Anders. “I want you inside me. Now. Please.” He pressed his groin against Fenris' thigh, and through the leather armour the elf could feel the mage's hard urgency.

Pulling the shred of cloth out of Anders' hair and freeing the silken hair, Fenris fisted it firmly and tugged; Anders willingly tilted his head back and Fenris sank his teeth into the inviting white throat, feeling it thrum as Anders moaned huskily.

Fenris rose to his feet, pulling Anders with him. Anders followed eagerly, kissing and licking at the lyrium tattoos that swirled and covered the elf's own throat, nipping and sucking hungrily along Fenris' jaw as he drew them both further away from the house and into the seclusion of the overgrown trees. Their hands were all over each other's bodies, peeling away armour, stripping away the linen shirt – unheeding as it ripped beneath impatient fingers – casting aside the other gauntlet, fingers struggling impatiently with laced closings of breeches. Fenris pushed Anders down onto the grass beneath the shady branches of a laden fruit tree, tugging at his trousers as Anders obligingly canted his hips, wriggling out of the tight clothing before sitting up to help the elf unlace his own pants. As Fenris ripped the last lace free, Anders rose to his knees and tugged them down over the elf's tattooed hips, freeing his erection. Bracing his hands against those silvery swirls and tanned flesh, Anders bent his head and took Fenris' cock into his mouth, lifting his eyes to watch the elf as he sucked and nibbled at the warm flesh.

Fenris groaned and sank his fingers into the soft blond hair, his hips bucking as he tried to restrain himself from thrusting into that warm, inviting mouth. Anders hummed in pleasure as he took Fenris deeper into his mouth, relaxing his jaw, and Fenris shuddered with a moan as the vibrations brought him headily close to the edge. He pushed Anders back, and the mage drew his tongue slowly along the warm brown length, tasting the salty pre-cum that leaked from the head.

“You're right, it doesn't glow,” he observed.

“Mage, do you _ever_ shut up?” growled Fenris, his eyes dark with want.

“Rarely,” admitted Anders with a sly smirk. “It's a failing of mine-”

He was silenced as Fenris pushed him onto his back, straddling his hips and claiming his mouth once more as lyrium-lined hands sought and found the mage's nipples, rolling and flicking them until Anders writhed and arched his back beneath him, moaning wantonly into the elf's hot, devouring mouth.


	14. Chapter 14

Anders arched his back and moaned as Fenris crouched over the mage's body, running his fingers over the sharply-defined ribs as he lowered his head, tongue darting out to lap at small scars and scrapes. He lovingly laved the pink, puckered flesh from the healing spear wound before swirling his tongue around Anders' navel. Anders curled up a little with a giggle and pressed his hands against the elf's shoulders, but Fenris smiled ferally before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh over a rib.

Anders threw his head back with a gasp, his nails digging into the elf's bare shoulders before starting to move in small, caressing circles, fingertips lightly tracing over raised whorls of scar tissue before slowly trailing down over the elf's collarbones and down to Fenris' chest.

Fenris moved slowly up Anders' torso, alternately nipping, licking and sucking at the pale skin, skirting gently over the fading bruises as his fingers lightly explored scar tissue. He paused over a taut-skinned, white scar directly over Anders' heart and glanced up, an eyebrow quirking upwards in silent question.

“Templars,” Anders managed, a little breathlessly. “When Justice and I first joined. He killed them.”

Fenris' face clouded slightly. “The templars will not touch you again,” he promised quietly. His hands spread out flat across Anders' ribs, and the white lyrium markings surged into life. Anders closed his eyes and groaned as the magic flared into answering life from deep within his bones, racing like liquid fire through his veins and heightening sensation across his suddenly sensitive skin. He was acutely aware of a light breeze cooling the wet trails across his chest as Fenris' tongue lapped at his skin, tasting him.

Fenris paused, his breath ghosting warm over Anders' skin, and then he took a pale pink nipple into his mouth, tonguing and tasting it before teasing the tender flesh between sharp, white teeth. Anders' hands flew up to bury themselves in Fenris' snowy white locks as he bit his lip, whimpering as the elf rolled the other nipple between thumb and forefinger, teasing and pinching it as Anders writhed beneath him, breath hitching in his throat.

Fenris blew gently upon the moist nipple and Anders shivered, eyes closed as he swallowed convulsively. Fenris turned the ministrations of his mouth to the other nipple, and Anders moaned before lowering a hand to his mouth and biting upon the fore and middle fingers to muffle the sound. Fenris let a hand stroke slowly down the bruised torso where bite marks now slowly blossomed into purple roses against the white flesh, his questing fingers pressing lower until they encircled Anders' cock, warm and engorged as desire bloomed deep in the mage's groin, hot and insistent. Firmly the tanned hand grasped the heated flesh and began to stroke it steadily, and Anders whimpered deep in his throat as his hips began to thrust to meet each stroke.

Cupping a hand beneath Anders' head, Fenris rose to his knees, lifting Anders up into a sitting position as he continued to pump Anders' erection steadily with his hand as he bent his head to nip at the mage's throat. Anders willingly threw his head back, baring his skin for the wolf's teeth; Fenris obligingly bit into the soft, yielding flesh, sucking hungrily until he had emblazoned a garland of bloody bruised roses around Anders' throat.

Anders was almost beyond words, held upright only by Fenris' supporting hand and lost to wanton lust. It was only with difficulty he managed to open his eyes. “Please,” he begged quietly. “Want you...”

Fenris' hand left Anders' cock to dip lower between his legs, cupping his balls before a questing finger gently probed his perineum, stroking in firm, small circles.

“We need-” began Fenris, but Anders lifted a hand, frowning a little as he drew his thoughts together with an effort to channel enough magic for a grease spell. The palm of his hand began to fill with a clear oily liquid; Fenris dipped his hand in and covered his fingers thoroughly then dropped his hand back down to press his finger gently between Anders' cheeks against his entrance. He let a single finger slip just inside the ring of muscle and then let it rest there whilst Anders slowly adjusted to the intrusion. Lovingly he kissed his way up Anders' slender neck then slowly nipped and kissed his way along the stubbled jaw, Anders panting softly as the elf slowly eased the oiled finger deeper inside.

“Good?” murmured Fenris as he softly bestowed small kisses across Anders' cheek then sucked an earlobe into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth.

“Ye-yes... oh, Maker,” breathed Anders as Fenris probed deeper inside then curved his finger ever so lightly just _so_ and touched the tender, sensitive place inside. Fenris smiled as he kissed his way back towards Anders' chin then swirled his tongue teasingly over the mage's soft pink lips as Anders tried to catch his mouth with a kiss. Fenris pulled his face away slightly, gently withdrawing his finger then pushing it back inside as Anders groaned, half with want and half with frustration. Fenris smiled then claimed Anders' lips once more with a kiss, probing his mouth with his tongue even as his finger pressed firmly deep inside Anders once more. Anders canted his hips to take more of Fenris' hand deep inside; slipping his finger almost all the way out, the elf added his middle finger and pressed both digits inside, curling them inwards and back as he drew his hand out before thrusting in again.

Anders was slowly moving his hips to meet each thrust, eyes dark with desire as he gazed up into Fenris' emerald green eyes. He was losing himself in that enigmatic gaze as surely as his body was surrendering itself to the sensations rippling through him, heat coiling deep in his belly as his cock dripped pre-cum onto his abdomen. He panted then moaned into Fenris' hot, wet mouth as the elf gently scissored his fingers deep inside Anders, slowly stretching him.

They lay like that for some time, Fenris keeping up a slow, steady pace as he eased his fingers out of the mage's body before pressing them deep inside Anders' tight, hot depths, each little “come hither” stroke of his fingers across the mage's sensitive spot bringing the apostate that little bit closer to losing himself until Anders could bear it no more. “Need you inside,” he begged.

Fenris nodded, withdrawing his fingers and reaching for Anders' hand, coating his tanned skin in more oil before anointing his own engorged member. He moved slightly to place himself between Anders' thighs, then carefully pressed the head of his cock against Anders' entrance, drops of pre-cum beading the glans and oozing from the slit. He pushed gently into Anders until the head of his cock had eased passed the tight ring of muscle, then paused, watching Anders' face whilst the mage adjusted to the larger girth now stretching him. Anders swallowed, closing his eyes as he accustomed himself to the slight burn, willing his body to relax and accept Fenris' member, then he nodded as he looked up into Fenris' eyes, signalling he was ready.

Sliding his hands beneath the mage's knees, Fenris lifted Anders' hips then slowly thrust himself into the mage's willing body until his whole length was buried deep inside. Then leaning forward upon his hands either side of Anders' head, the mage's cock pressed against his stomach, Fenris began to thrust steadily into the apostate as Anders canted his hips further and wrapped his shapely white legs around the elf's dusky body, crossing his ankles against the small of Fenris' back against the knot of lyrium brands that met there, pulsing with light in time to their heartbeats. Slowly they settled into a rhythm.

Anders rocked his hips to meet each thrust, levering himself against Fenris' back. Fenris began to thrust harder and deeper, shifting slightly to change his entry angle; he was rewarded by moans and soft cries as each thrust brushed against Anders' prostate, sending pulses of pure sensual pleasure through him with each stroke. As Anders' breath quickened, Fenris' pace slowly increased until Anders was snapping his hips up to meet each downward thrust with increasing urgency.

Fenris could feel himself rapidly approaching the brink himself, and shifting his weight to one hand he slid the other hand between their hot, tight-pressed bodies, slick with sweat, and curled his hand about Anders' cock once more, squeezing and tugging until Anders cried out, throwing his head back as his body was racked with uncontrollable shudders. He came, hot and wet, all over Fenris' hand, the thick ropey strands smeared between their bodies as Anders panted.

The sight of Anders utterly undone was enough to send Fenris over the edge, and soon he followed with his own climax, groaning loudly as he came deep within the mage with a spurt of hot, wet seed as his movements stuttered, rhythm falling away until they were clinging to each other, slowly rocking as their hearts pounded, breathing hoarse and ragged.

Anders opened his eyes and stared up at Fenris as he gradually managed to catch his breath. He opened his mouth to say something, but Fenris covered his mouth with one warm, firm hand.

“You talk too much,” he said dryly.

Behind the hand, Anders smirked.


	15. Chapter 15

Anders was uncharacteristically quiet afterwards. Fenris had slipped gently out of the mage once their hearts had stopped racing and his breath had slowed from ragged pants. He reached for the ragged remains of Anders' shirt and wiped them both down carefully. Anders had lain back, head resting in the crook of the elf's arm, merely watching as he lay still, enervated and silent.

After a while, Fenris touched two fingers to Anders' chin, tilting his head up and around to face him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked quietly, his voice a soft rumble. Anders shook his head, gaze distant. “Do you regret this? Us?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I just....” He shrugged, a hand stealing up to brush an errant lock of hair out of his eyes before absently brushing the stubble at the corner of his mouth with a thumb.

“Did I hurt you?” asked Fenris, concerned. Anders glanced up at him and gave a brief, reassuring smile.

“No, you were... gentle with me. I needed that. I needed....” Abruptly he turned his face towards the elf's chest. “Hold me,” he whispered.

Fenris cradled Anders gently against his chest, the mage's cheek pressed against the elf's heart. He stroked the silky blond hair soothingly as Anders huddled close, seeking comfort. He was not entirely surprised when he felt Anders' shoulders quiver and and the touch of hot, wet tears against his skin.

“You are safe,” he murmured gently. “No-one will ever hurt you that way again, I swear it.” He pressed a kiss against the flaxen hair, breathing in the scent of the man as he held him through his silent paroxysms until finally Anders quietened.

The morning air was cool across their skins, and as the sweat dried Anders shivered.

“You are cold,” remarked the elf. “We should return inside.” Anders was still for a while, then slowly nodded. Fenris helped him to his feet, and together they began to search for their clothes, retrieving items scattered earlier in their haste and leisurely dressing. They slowly made their way back across the overgrown lawn, walking close together in companionable silence, the elf's arm a warm, comforting touch around his waist.

As they drew closer to the house, a movement drew Fenris' attention and he glanced up, his feet slowing to a stop. Anders had been walking with his eyes downcast, trusting to Fenris to guide his feet; as Fenris pulled them to a halt, he glanced up to see why they had stopped.

“Hawke,” said Fenris softly.

The warrior regarded them silently, his gaze focused on the ring of bruises around Anders' throat.

Hawke had been watching them since they had emerged from under the trees. Anders was clad only in his trousers, barefoot save for the bandages swathing his feet, now stained green from the grass. Fresh new bruises marked his ribs, but Hawke could not tear his eyes away from the livid marks around Anders' throat.

Anders himself seemed subdued and quiet; he walked close to Fenris, leaning a little into the elf's side, head bowed. When Fenris pulled them both to a halt, it seemed to take him a moment to register it before he raised his eyes to stare at Hawke. The black-haired warrior stared at Anders, trying to read the mage's expression. There was something in his eyes that Hawke couldn't quite fathom.

“Hawke,” Fenris said quietly; Hawke ignored him, taking a step through the balcony doors towards Anders.

“So... it's over then?” Hawke asked. Anders regarded him sadly.

“I still love you,” he replied. “I can't help that. Even after everything... I still love you.”

“You said once it would kill you to lose me,” said Hawke slowly. Anders nodded.

“There's a part of me that is dying right now,” he replied sadly, wrapping his arms around his thin frame. He seemed to hunch in upon himself, his amber eyes tear-glazed. Fenris tightened his embrace around Anders' waist reassuringly, but said nothing.

“The Chantry will be after your blood, you know,” said Hawke abruptly.

“I'd expect so,” agreed Anders, wondering at the sudden change of subject.

“What will you do?” pressed Hawke. Anders shrugged.

“Lie low until it's all over. Move the clinic perhaps. People still need me; I can't stay away forever.”

Hawke glanced at Fenris, then back to Anders. “Come back with me,” he quietly begged. Anders closed his eyes in pain.

“Do you really think that's a good idea, Hawke? Really?” He opened his eyes, taking a step forward, then another until he stood equidistant from the two men. “What will you do with me, Hawke? Lock me up for my own sake?”

Hawke shook his head. “No,” he replied sadly. “I just....” He took a step towards Anders, holding out his hand. “Come home, love,” he pleaded. “I miss you. I _need_ you.”

Anders glanced away, his expression downcast.

“It's your choice, Anders,” said Fenris. “What do you want to do?”

Anders clenched his hands into fists by his sides. “Why does it have to be one or the other?” he whispered, staring at the ground. “I _can't_ choose. Whichever of you I go with, the other will hurt. There is no path of least harm here. No matter what I do, I can't get it right.” He glanced up at Hawke. “I love you,” he said, then his eyes flickered to Fenris. “Both of you.” He stared down at his hands, straightening them and turning them palms uppermost. “However I balance this, I can see only heartache and a ruined friendship. Things can never be the same.” He shook his head slowly. “Whatever I decide, I fear the consequences.”

He closed his eyes, standing still.

Fenris and Hawke stared at each other; they both took a step towards the still mage simultaneously then halted. Hawke frowned, then ran his hand slowly down over his face. Fenris regarded him quizzically, but Hawke ignored him.

“Tell me what I must do to win you back,” he begged Anders, who frowned.

“I am no prize, to be won or bartered for,” he objected, shaking his head as he opened his eyes and stared at Hawke.

“No, you're not,” agreed Hawke, bringing his other hand round from behind his back. For the first time, Anders and Fenris noticed what he had carried behind his back, as he brought it out in his hands. It was Anders' feathered jacket. Anders stared at it at it, then held his hand out for it, grateful as the cool morning breeze raised gooseflesh across his torso. Hawke gently helped him into it, and Anders pulled it closed about himself, thankful for the warmth. Hawke reached out sadly and ran his fingers through the grey and brown feathers with a small wistful smile.

“My little street sparrow,” he mused softly. “The cage door is open, but will you return after you've spread your wings, I wonder?” He gently cupped Anders' cheek with his hand; miserable, Anders leaned into the touch as Fenris stepped in close against his side, an arm sliding around Anders' waist as he rested his head against a feathered pauldron. “Little sparrow,” he rumbled in faint amusement. “It suits you.”

“I'm taller than you,” replied Anders absently, not taking his eyes off Hawke's face. Hawke stepped in closer; all three men were so close that Anders could feel their breath against his skin. He stilled, glancing from Hawke down to Fenris then back; Fenris' hand was stroking slow, comforting circles against his ribs, and Hawke's hand still rested against his face. He couldn't believe what was happening.

Fenris glanced up at Hawke; something unspoken passed between them, then Fenris stepped in close behind Anders, both arms looping around the slender waist as the elf buried his face in soft feathers whilst Hawke lifted his other hand to cradle Anders' other cheek, leaning in close to claim the mage's pink lips. Anders' eyes flew wide open, and then he melted into the kiss with a soft moan. He surrendered himself to the moment, held close by the two men he loved. This couldn't last, but he wanted to hold on to this moment forever.

Hawke pulled away slightly, his eyes searching the half-lidded amber gaze before him. “Love?” he asked quietly.

“This will be a disaster,” Anders breathed with a gasp. “You're both tearing me apart... please....”

Fenris' voice was a soft rumble, a vibration against Anders' back as his words were muffled by feathers. But the hands spanning his abdomen tightened reassuringly. Hawke's hands dropped to Anders' sides; he could feel them both against his skin, encircling him, hemming him in. He shivered, half deliriously loving it, half wanting to break free and draw a deep breath. He was smothering under the intensity of their presence. He wanted... he wanted... he didn't know what he wanted, how to articulate the nameless desire inside himself. He clutched his head and groaned.

“Anders?” asked Fenris, concerned.

“You're both killing me,” he breathed. “But I can't turn away. I'll destroy us all. This can only end in ruin. It cannot possibly work.”

“I'm willing to take the risk,” replied Hawke.

“As am I,” replied Fenris.

Anders threw his head back and cried out in anguish.

“Love, please,” pleaded Hawke. “I don't know if we can make this work, but whether you would destroy us or not, I only know that losing you is destroying me. Please. Can we not try? I won't pretend that the thought of sharing you hurts like a knife to the gut, but I'd sooner that than not have you at all.”

“And I also,” rumbled Fenris, disengaging himself from the soft downy feathers. “You are an addiction to me, Anders, and I want more. If that means sharing you, then so be it. I do not like it, but for your sake I would try.”

“I cannot stay trapped between you,” cried Anders. “Can't you see that? I can't just stand there and watch you two argue over me like a mabari with a bone. This can't go on. Last night was a living hell, and I cannot endure more of that. I _can't_....”

Hawke stepped back, as did Fenris, and Anders hugged himself, tears of anguish streaking his face. “I can't do this,” he sobbed. “I just _can't_. I can't choose.”

“Love, you don't have to choose. Don't you see? We can make this work,” answered Hawke.

“The three of us,” agreed Fenris. Anders stepped back, his eyes flickering between the two of them.

“You... you both mean that? You would... you would both...?”

“We can but try,” replied Hawke. He glanced at Fenris and smirked. “Though I'm not sure Fenris' bed is large enough for all three of us.”

“You're not my type, Hawke,” replied Fenris without missing a beat, though the slight quirk of his lips took any sting out of his words.

Anders threaded a hand through his hair distractedly. “I am either the luckiest man alive, or else the most unfortunate. I can't quite decide. I don't deserve you two... either of you.” He shook his head. “I must be going mad. Aveline will have apoplexy, Sebastian will have an utter fit, Varric and Isabela will think it's their lucky day and oh Maker, the friend-fic!”

“Bring it on,” smiled Hawke.

“It can't work,” argued Anders.

“It is worth the risk,” replied Fenris quietly.

“Think on it at least, love,” suggested Hawke. Anders bowed his head, closing his eyes. They stood in silence, watching and waiting. Finally he nodded slowly.

“Give me time,” he said quietly. “I can't think straight. This is all too much; my mind is reeling.”

Hawke glanced to Fenris then back to the mage. “Come back to my estate,” he suggested. “Both of you. We'll eat, rest, talk this over later when you're ready, Anders.”

Fenris nodded. “Anders needs to eat,” he agreed.

Anders sighed, and nodded. “I need to think,” he said simply. He turned to walk back into the ruined house, the two men slipping into step either side of him, close but not quite touching him. He made his way slowly back to Fenris' room to retrieve his belongings, head lowered in thought.


	16. Chapter 16

Hawke blocked the incoming blow aimed at Anders' unprotected back as, unthinking, he sprinted past the rock wraith, throwing himself down onto his knees beside the fallen elf.

“Fenris! Can you hear me?” he cried, fingers already searching for a small vial of lyrium in his belt pouch. The elf groaned and tried to rise, falling back onto his side with a wince as he clutched at the bloody mess visible beneath the shredded leather that was all that remained of his left pauldron. He glanced at the gory wreckage that was his shoulder, the lyrium lines flaring and stuttering, the smooth whorls and curls disrupted by rent muscle and flesh torn asunder. The white gleam of bone was visible, streaked with blood, and Fenris paled slightly in spite of himself. “Not good,” he murmured.

Anders knocked back the lyrium with a bitter grimace then reached for the wound, summoning power into his hands before pouring it into the injured elf's body.

Something shattered with a loud crack just behind Anders' back, scattering chunks of rock and wraith remains all over the ground around them; Hawke flung himself in the way before a large piece could strike Anders' bare head, deflecting it with a swing of his arm.

“Let's try not to do that again shall we?” he panted, staring around the cave. Varric was kicking over the rubble cautiously as if he half-expected it to suddenly pull itself together and attack them again. Knowing their luck thus far on this expedition, Hawke wouldn't have been surprised.

He turned back to Anders and Fenris; the mage was swaying on his knees as he worked over Fenris. As he watched, the colour slowly restored itself to the elf's face, and he sat up, lifting a hand to Anders' cheek as the mage continued drawing muscle back together again, weaving new sinew over bone, directing blood flow back around the flesh and closing over the skin, intent only upon what he was doing and oblivious to all else – even the fond smile that crossed the elf's face as he stroked his thumb in small circles upon the mage's cheek. As the lyrium brands flowed back together over the surface of Fenris' skin once more, he tapped lightly into their power, channelling a little of the energy back into the mage through the lines upon his fingers.

Anders moaned as the power of the lyrium flowed into him, restoring him a little. It didn't take away the bone-deep ache of fatigue that healing always brought in its wake, but it was enough to dispel a little of the dizziness and keep him upright.

“You shouldn't do that,” he chastised the elf wearily. “Healing you takes almost as much out of your reserves as it does mine, and you can't afford it. You need to rest.”

“As do you,” said Hawke as he rested one hand on a feathered pauldron. “Stay there for a moment, love; we can afford a little time to rest.”

Anders shook his head, struggling to his feet as Fenris lithely rose to slip a hand beneath his elbow to assist him. “No... I can keep going,” he argued. “I'll be fine.”

“Stubborn mage,” growled Fenris, though without heat. “Sit. Stay.”

“What am I, Hawke's mabari?” exclaimed Anders. “Woof bloody woof!”

Hawke patted Anders on the shoulder, and the mage staggered then sat down again heavily. “Good boy,” smiled Hawke.

“That's not fair!” groused Anders in annoyance. “You're both bloody ganging up on me!”

“That's right,” agreed Hawke. “Now stay there, or I'll have to sling you over my shoulder and carry you.”

“You wouldn't dare,” Anders said rebelliously.

“Go ahead and try him,” replied Fenris, sheathing his greatsword and smirking. Anders eyed him askance.

“Don't pout, love,” said Hawke gently as he ruffled the blond locks which were coming loose from their tie. Anders frowned and swatted his hand away, ducking his head.

“Very funny,” he muttered. But as he watched Hawke walk over to speak to Varric, Anders smiled a little in spite of himself.

It had been six months since that fateful night, and each day he was surprised and thankful anew at how things had worked out. Fenris and Hawke still had their issues at times; Hawke could be over-protective of Anders in a way that caused Fenris' hackles to rise, and Hawke made no secret of his uneasiness at the marks and bruises Fenris left across Anders' body when they spent the night together, even though Anders always assured him that he didn't mind and the marks looked worse than they actually were. Anders had learned to quietly heal the worst of the more visible bites before rejoining Hawke – it just wasn't worth the inevitable grousing and concern from Hawke for the next day or two afterwards.

There were arguments over the clinic sometimes, when Anders stayed late into the night, pushing himself beyond the point of exhaustion; he refused to allow Fenris to stand guard, as he felt the elf's presence deterred those who needed him most. Hawke had sided with Fenris upon that issue and it had led to Anders storming out into the night, showing up roaring drunk at the Hanged Man three hours later and proceeding to attempt to drink Isabela under the table. Varric had cheerfully paid the tab afterwards, claiming it was worth it and it was the funniest thing he'd seen in weeks.

Sometimes Anders would catch Hawke watching wistfully as he and Fenris indulged in their usual sarcastic banter, baiting each other as they used to do. Sometimes the insults went too far and someone would be hurt; and then Hawke would step in – a quiet word to Fenris to cool his wrath, or a comforting hand round Anders' shoulder whilst the mage bit back tears.

And sometimes it was Fenris with a comforting word when Anders seemed distracted or Justice reared his head once more. Each time Anders' control on the spirit seemed to slip a little more, Hawke's face would tighten with lines of worry, seeing Anders struggle but unable to help him.

Sometimes Fenris would take to brooding, sitting in his rooms alone in that vast decaying mansion in Hightown, slowly drinking himself into a stupor when the jealousy reared its ugly head too much for him to take. And sometimes it would be Hawke who barricaded himself in his room and refused to see anyone. But as time went by and they grew used to their little triad, such times had become rarer. And when it was Anders who locked himself away in his clinic, the lantern extinguished, sitting at the small desk and filling page after page with the hastily-written words of his manifesto, they would both go to him, leading him away from the ink and paper, distracting him with kisses until he realised at last how late the hour was and how the exhaustion had sunk into his very bones. And on those nights, Fenris and Hawke would gently undress him together and one or the other would make tender love to him whilst the other held him, stroking and kissing him until he climaxed helplessly between them before surrendering himself to sleep.

Yes, Anders mused, maybe sometimes the consequences _were_ worth it.

And maybe sometimes, the Maker _did_ answer prayers.

Anders rose to his feet and walked over to where Fenris and Hawke were standing together, frowning over a map. Gently he inserted himself between them, slipping his arms around their waists.

He was the luckiest man in Thedas.

 

~ _Fin_ ~


	17. Epilogue

Hawke stared down at Anders' back. The apostate sat in silent misery, his head bowed. Bodies lay scattered around them, and the rest of the companions stood off to one side – but there was silence around Anders. He was very slightly rocking, his eyes staring sightlessly.

Hawke stared down at him, trying to fathom how they had all come to that point. He glanced over to Fenris, whose eyes held the same confusion and bewilderment. Neither of them had ever guessed what Anders had planned. Three years together, and yet they could never have dreamed he would do something this desperate.

Fenris stared at the mage, who seemed oblivious to all around him. He had seen men look like this before; it was all too familiar to one who had been a slave. Anders had given up living and resigned himself to death; he was merely marking time until then. He closed his eyes briefly against a stab of pain. Anders wanted to die. He flexed a hand uselessly, feeling the lyrium flow beneath his skin.

If Anders asked, he would grant him a merciful death. It was the least he could do to relieve the torment he must be feeling.

He remembered a day, three years ago, when he had held his hand within Anders' chest, the mage's heart fluttering in his chest, when he had mentally wrestled with his conscience. He could have taken Anders' life then and given him surcease from his pain and struggles, freeing him from the demon residing within his flesh. He had thought at the time that it was mercy and love that stayed his hand, but maybe it had only been his own selfish desire.

He glanced back to Hawke. If Hawke would not give Anders the release he desired, then he, Fenris, would do it. He owed that much to Anders.

Hawke stared down at the mage. The man sitting in front of him wasn't the man he thought he knew. The bowed back may as well have belonged to a stranger. He shook his head, bewilderment writ large on his face as he tried to understand; tried to grasp what on earth could be going through Anders' head right at that moment. Was it even Anders in there any more?

Anders seemed to slowly come back into himself. “There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself,” he said with a faint sigh. “Vengeance... took me over. There was nothing I could do to stop him.” He stared down, twisting his fingers uselessly in the palm of his hand. “I made my friend a demon,” he said quietly. “And he did this.” His voice shook.

“Do not hide behind your spirit!” growled Sebastian. “It was your hand that did this!” The ice-blue eyes bored with fury into the mage. Anders lowered his head.

“Kill me now,” he said quietly. “Before there is nothing left of me.” He closed his eyes.

Hawke shook his head, still trying to understand. “I know you would have changed it if you could,” he said, his tone begging Anders to confirm his words. “I might have understood... if you'd told me,” he added quietly.

Anders shook his head. “But I have proven I cannot,” he replied. “If I couldn't control Vengeance now, I never will.” Softly he added, “I need to die.”

Fenris closed his eyes briefly in pain. He was right. Anders was begging for death. _Grant it to him, Hawke_ , he thought silently. _End his pain._

“You should have done this long ago,” Anders continued. “For what it's worth... I'm glad it's you.” He smiled sadly. “It was nice to be happy... for a while.”

Hawke looked to the others, silently pleading for help. Sebastian sneered, but Isabela looked sympathetic. Hawke flicked his glance to Fenris.

The elf straightened, having eyes only for his lover. An expression of sadness crossed his face, but his tone was neutral, almost resigned. “He wants to die. Kill him and be done with it.” Hawke's eyes widened, but then he saw a faint glimmer of tears in the green eyes as the hard gaze softened, and Hawke understood. Fenris could not ease his lover's pain; he did not know how. He wanted Anders to be at peace. He truly thought this was the only way.

 _It can't be._ He turned back to Anders, whose shoulders had slumped in resignation to his fate.

 _No! It can't end like this!_

“He should come with us. Do what he can to put things right.” Merrill's voice rang out across the courtyard. Anders' head jerked up as he opened his eyes, frowning a little. Fenris held his breath.

“Whatever you do, just do it,” said Anders. His shoulders tensed.

 _He expects the blade._

Hawke stared down at his lover, then glanced back to Fenris, lifting an eyebrow. _Back me up_ , his eyes seemed to plead. Fenris' eyes widened as he realised what Hawke was about to say, and then he nodded his head.

“Help me defend the mages,” he told Anders.

The apostate jerked, eyes widening in surprise as the words sunk in. He pushed himself up to his feet and turned to face Hawke. “You mean... stay with you?” he asked, his tone one of wonder and disbelief.

“No! You cannot let this abomination walk free!” objected Sebastian. Fenris' hands twitched as the archer brushed past him, advancing on the warrior. The elf snarled and took a step after Sebastian but Varric laid a hand on his arm and shook his head as Hawke and Sebastian began to argue. Fenris glared down at the dwarf, who jerked his head in Anders' direction.

“Uh-uh, elf. Look at Blondie,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Fenris looked up.

Anders was staring at Hawke, open-mouthed as the warrior stared down the Prince. He flinched at Sebastian's venomous invective, but Hawke tossed it aside as though each one of the archer's threats were only so much hot air and not a promise of agony and death for the slender apostate. Anders glanced over to Fenris, and the elf nodded slowly, reassuringly.

 _Whatever happens, I am with you, Beloved. Sebastian will have to get past both Hawke and myself first._

Anders stared up into the grey clouds overhead as Sebastian stormed away angrily, oblivious to the faint sneer the elf aimed in his direction as he passed. “Don't let the door hit you on the arse on the way out,” murmured Isabela wryly.

Anders took a deep breath. He was being given another chance. He didn't understand why... but neither Hawke nor Fenris were going to let him go.

Another chance.

Hawke held out his hand to Anders, who lowered his gaze and nodded, stepping forward. Hawke's arm swung comfortably round his shoulders, giving the feathered shoulder a squeeze as they walked together back towards the others. Fenris reached out and cradled the back of Anders' head with a razor-taloned hand and brought the mage's head close ho his, kissing him fiercely in a clash of tongues and teeth before pulling away.

“We will not lose you so easily as that, mage,” he promised Anders quietly.

“Whatever happens, we will face it together,” agreed Hawke.

“So let's get this party started shall we?” suggested Isabela cheerfully. Hawke nodded and Fenris swung into stride on Anders' other side.

“Happy?” asked Merrill as they strode down the street. Anders grinned fiercely as Hawke and Fenris both grinned ferally in answer.

“Ecstatic,” replied the mage.

The battle for freedom had begun, and soon all of Thedas would ring with war.


End file.
